KibbelzNBits by DEB

New Blog Address!

2007-10-05T17:22:00.000+01:00

Welcome to my new site: Notes from Deb (click here).

I thought it was about time for a change! Plus there are some features with WordPress that I really like. If you happen to drop by, please let me know what you think. Thanks!

Those magical musical modes

2007-10-02T15:35:00.000+01:00

This will date me terribly, but when I was about 7 or 8 years old, I developed a really keen passion for the sounds of modal scales, and began adding folk music to my repertoire of Mozart, Schubert, and Grieg. If my memory serves me faithfully the musical source I turned to again and again was a small but thick compilation of folk tunes by Burl Ives. Because Mr Ives played the guitar, this musical morsel introduced me to the musical world of chord symbols and progressions. I fell in love with haunting and plaintive minor melodies and the ways the modal harmonies added certain colours – all great stuff for a little girl with an active imagination. I remember liking the Dorian mode so much that I thought one day, if I ever had a little baby boy, I would name him Dorian. But instead I grew up to inherit a little female puppy dog and Dorian just didn’t seem to fit.

Anyway, from these playing sessions inside my treasure book of folk music – which quickly became worn and dog-eared with use, with pages unhinged from glued binding – I learned about other composers of folk music, and learned that we Americans have been gifted with a lot of early music from the British Isles.

Some of the songs I would play over and over again, and much to the dismay of my long-suffering family who had to listen to me practice, would be those of John Jacob Niles. Black is the colour of my true love’s hair and Barb’ry Ellen must have been a couple of tunes I drove them crazy with! As an adult I still appreciate his lovely contribution to our music repertoire for hymns and Christmas carols. For his last work, he turned to the poetry of Thomas Merton, the Trappist monk, to give us the Niles-Merton Song Cycle.

For the Christmas season Niles’s I wonder as I wander has always been a favourite of mine when I introduce his music to some of the English choirs I’ve conducted here in the UK. Its tonal colours and poignant message never fail to transport me to another time and place. Born in 1892, by the time Niles set this work to music and lyrics in July of 1933, he had travelled the world several times and become a keen observer of the human condition. Here are his recorded notes of how this lovely creation came to be:

‘I Wonder As I Wander grew out of three lines of music sung for me by a girl who called herself Annie Morgan. The place was Murphy, North Carolina, and the time was July, 1933. The Morgan family, revivalists all, were about to be ejected by the police, after having camped in the town square for some little time, coking, washing, hanging their wash from the Confederate monument and generally conducting themselves in such a way as to be classed a public nuisance. Preacher Morgan and his wife pled poverty; they had to hold one more meeting in order to buy enough gas to get out of town. It was then that Annie Morgan came out--a tousled, unwashed blond, and very lovely. She sang the first three lines of the verse of "I Wonder As I Wander". At twenty-five cents a performance, I tried to get her to sing all the song. After eight tries, all of which are carefully recorded in my notes, I had only three lines of verse, a garbled fragment of melodic material--and a magnificent idea. With the writing of additional verses and the development of the original melodic material, "I Wonder As I Wander" came into being. I sang it for five years in my concerts before it caught on. Since then, it has been sung by soloists and choral groups wherever the English language is spoken and sung.’

For this Christmas season, I’ve been asked to introduce another American Christmas carol to another English choir. As I was trolling through my choral library this summer, a hidden gem of Niles's seemed to float to the top of my choral octavos. Soon I will begin to teach Sweet Marie and her Baby (Aeolian mode) to the kids in our Village Children’s Choir.

Hopefully these precious children will become enthralled by the magic of the modes in melody and harmony, and as touched with the message of the text as I was – all those years ago when I was close to the age they are now.

Click on this sentence and it will take you to a list of albums and songs by John Jacob Niles, as well as a biography and other links.

Allegiance to whom?

2007-09-24T12:23:00.000+01:00

This post sounds scattered. I’ve just been processing through some thoughts from yesterday’s worship, on recent Blog debates over at Preacher Mike’s, and future plans our Churches Together group is praying about for our village community. They all just seemed to converge.

Churches Together met yesterday afternoon at the Methodist Chapel. We began praying for and planning a spiritual initiative for our village community to implement in the coming year, which begins in just three months on New Year’s Eve. The year-long outreach is entitled Hope 2008.

And yesterday morning was my turn on the church rota to read the scriptures. On this particular Sunday, Proper 20, Year C, our Epistle reading was from 1 Timothy 2.1-7, and our Gospel reading was from Luke 16.1-13.

1 Timothy 2.1-7 – Instructions on Worship: or how to genuinely include all the corrupt world leaders and politicians in authority into our prayers – ‘requests, prayers, intercession and thanksgiving’. These are to be made for all, ‘…so that we may live peaceful and quiet lives in all godliness and holiness.’

Not a lot to be thankful for with our current lot of world leaders. Especially when the decisions they continue to make lead to the deaths of so many innocents, and all they are worried about is how to wiggle out of legal loopholes and preserve their legacy (much like the shrewd manager in Jesus' parable).

Luke 16.1-13 – The Parable of the Shrewd Manager: or how to watch out for one’s own interests when one gets caught embezzling other people’s assets.

This was difficult for me to read, in light of how the business of all the sub-prime lenders in America has been affecting people’s lives here in the UK. But most Americans don’t read our newspapers or hear about what goes on over here – unlike the news we get, typical American TV and Radio broadcasts give more regional and national coverage, and very little world news. Still, they should take more responsibility: how one nation’s debt-ridden citizens can ruin the financial lives of those in the UK, for example, whose good earnings are used to cover Americans’ bad debts is just pure evil.

But as I prepared for my readings, God reminded me that Jesus has lessons for us that are not all wine and roses. Some, like those found in these two scriptures, are just plain hard to swallow at times.

After the reading of the Gospel our congregation stands to face the altar and, with our focus on the symbol of the Cross, in unison we all say the Creed of the Apostles. I love to face the Cross and say the Creed together with my brothers and sisters in Christ. Every Sunday, it seems the Holy Spirit illuminates one of its truths to me in a special message.

I have only learned the Creed as an adult. The religious denomination I grew up in preached that the Apostle’s Creed was in itself a sin. The church leaders who taught this could never tell me exactly what the Creed was. When I would ask them why they couldn’t tell me, they communicated the idea that it would be a spiritual stumbling block for them to even recite the words. Even though none of them had ever said it, they were certain that those who did intoned the words mindlessly and without conviction, thereby committing blasphemy. So the only words of the Creed I grew up hearing were two: ‘The Creed’. We did not have the Internet back then, or I would have been a most disobedient child and secretly Googled ‘The Creed’ in a search field.

As the church leaders were godly men, I believed and trusted them, and eventually stopped asking what The Creed was. Besides, they were much more pleased with me when I put my hand over my heart and recited The Pledge of Allegiance and sang the National Anthem in a school programme. Hey, I knew both by memory from the age of 5, reciting and singing both with gusto every weekday morning in front of the Stars and Stripes.

When my family returned to America after having lived in Afghanistan, for some reason I just could not find the spirit to get my hand over my heart, say the Pledge, or sing the National Anthem. Bombs bursting in air no longer appealed to me. And the Pledge of Allegiance sounded so empty when I realised there was no truth in America’s Constitutional Promises for all people to be treated equally, and learned that some of the Founding Fathers were not believers of God and Christ.

It’s been a good while since I have lived in a country where one sees a classroom or school hall full of small children stand in unison, hands over hearts, to face a great flag and recite the Pledge of Allegiance from memory. Recently my husband and I watched, with friends, a TV show from the United States and in it, a classroom of children repeated the age-old tradition that had been drilled into me when I was their age. Our friends, needless to say, were transfixed.

‘What was that?’
‘Well, in the States all school-aged children begin each school day saying the Pledge, and singing ‘O Say Can You See?’.
‘You are joking!’
‘No, seriously. It’s our patriotic duty.’
‘Well, that looks and sounds like brain-washing to us! Certainly looks it. What happens when the child doesn’t want to do either of those things? That song is pretty militaristic and hard to sing.’
‘They can be disciplined by the teacher and taunted or bullied by their classmates before recess or at lunch in the cafeteria. BUT if they bring along a note from home saying that the practice is against their religious beliefs, they get excused. They remain seated at their desks while the other kids stand around them. They’re not in trouble then, but they still get made fun of by some kids.’
‘How absolutely awful! We thought America was a lot different. We love our country, too, and our guys are dying in Afghanistan, but the only time we wave our flag is when England is in the World Cup!’

I must say, I see their point. For a country that is all about separation of Church and State, as America is, it seems that the Church cannot separate the politics of the State from its religious beliefs and teachings. Where does one begin and the other end? One’s unalienable rights trump loving one’s neighbour.

The passage from Luke which I read from yesterday ends with Jesus telling us that no servant can serve two masters. It's either a choice between God and the treasures of his kingdom, or the world and its earthly riches. In our world, where more sceptics are calling believers in Christ to stand up for their faith, I wonder which captures the truth and hopes of my passions better:

The Pledge of Allegiance I learned as a child OR The Apostles' Creed?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Pledge of Allegiance

I pledge allegiance to the Flag
of the United States of America,
and to the Republic for which it stands:
One Nation under God, indivisible,
with Liberty and Justice for all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Apostles’ Creed

I believe in God, the Father almighty,
Creator of heaven and earth.

I believe in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord,
Who was conceived by the Holy Spirit,
Born of the Virgin Mary,
Suffered under Pontius Pilate,
Was crucified, died, and was buried;
He descended to the dead.
On the third day he rose again;
He ascended into heaven,
He is seated at the right hand of the Father,
And he will come to judge the living and the dead.

I believe in the Holy Spirit,
The holy catholic Church,
The communion of the saints,
The forgiveness of sins,
The resurrection of the body,
And the life everlasting.
Amen.

They came...they sang...they conquered our hearts!

2007-09-21T16:37:00.000+01:00

They came...
They sang their little hearts out...

without a karaoke machine! :)

They wowed...

And when all were sung and wrung, THIRTY-THREE children became the very first new members of our Village Children’s Choir.

What a privilege for me to take part in their new adventure with music!

Autumn blowin' in!

2007-09-16T17:59:00.000+01:00

Well, things have been really busy, and that was just the summer!! I honestly cannot comprehend how people with full lives have the time to constantly update things like Facebook or Blogs.

In honour of my Darlin’ Pup, who is aged 10 today, here is my feeble attempt at updating.

Our Village Children’s Choir will commence this week, with Buddy Auditions on Wednesday. For kids in Years 4, 5, & 6, our first rehearsal will be next week. We are in partnership with our terrific village primary school, and have fantastic support from the PCC. So lots of work to get the word out, organise, and prepare the music. Christmas will be upon us before you can say Harvest Supper!

Dear One and I put up quite a production for our village's 10th annual Scarecrow Festival last weekend. He constructed the Scarecrow, and I and one of our wonderful neighbours baked goodies and served peach iced tea, hot tea, and home brewed coffee for our Texas Tea Tables extravaganza. I was reminded that Brits cannot comprehend the need for cold drinks that contain any or more than four ice cubes when skies are overcast and cloudy. But quite a few folks tried the peach iced tea out and politely commented on the nice taste. Hmmm... We were just one of several individual stalls located throughout the village, but managed to take in over £168 for our charity (our parish church) over the two days! Dear One set up the sound for great C&W music coming straight from the Texas Broadcasting Network to waft over the Upper High Street (ain’t Broadband great?). Our friends, H & R, wowed folks with their violin and guitar playing with a couple of inspiring sets, and Consensus Vocalis busked for charity as well. Daughter A and Friend G were indispensible in their help and were terrific servers for those who came for a cuppa something, a baked treat, and to sit a spell.

Click here for more photos of the Scarecrow Festival.

I joined the Village Quilter's class last week, and am now deep into a Quillow project for Dear One. The group is a gathering of some awesome ladies, all ages. My brain is sore from all the super quilting tricks they were eager to share. Bets are on I can finish the Quillow in time to put under the tree for Christmas, or before Dear One's feet freeze off, whichever comes first!
Click here to the link for the best little quilt shop in the Shires!

Children and Faith in Nothing

2007-07-31T13:39:00.000+01:00

We have lovely children in our village. Not only are they polite and considerate of others, they play well together. They are on their bikes and horses, enjoying the sunshine we have finally been having these past few days. (Thankfully our area is not in a flood plain, or we would easily have had a washout with the rain this July!) And they have been out of school for Summer Holidays since the 20th of July, not to return until the 5th of September. Lucky them!

I’ve spotted a few birthday parties, with kids and parents coming and going as they stroll through the High Street and on Old School Lane, either laden with gifts brightly wrapped up on their way to the parties or gift bags full of party goodies on their way out. One can usually spot epicentres of most of the merrymaking by the multi-coloured balloons that dance and dip in smiles across the blue skies we’ve had lately.

Parties in the sunshine make kids’ eyes dance just like those balloons. Their eyes also dance with anticipation and excitement when they describe their holiday plans to you. One little girl bubbled over to tell us that she had to get up at 3.30am in order to catch her flight to Spain for a couple of weeks on a sandy, sunny beach with her grandparents. Her words tripped out of her mouth, she was so excited! A summer tradition for many British children, fond memories of sunny beaches in Spain with Grandma and Grandpa well up intensely each year about this time as they get ready packing their swimming kits to go again.

If 'a child shall lead them', then who leads the child?

I hope that along with the sun and the beaches the adults in their lives will guide these kids to other sacred places on a holiday Sunday and take some time out to reflect and worship God in a different setting, possibly unusual yet all-inspiring. As those adults who are in charge of the kids on holiday pack the picnic supplies, sun-screen, and other necessary personal effects needed for their outings, perhaps they could also prepare for an enlightened worship experience.

Wouldn’t it be great if we could bottle up all this Holiday Excitement – all the laughter, bright eyes, bubbles, and anticipation – and transport it to our church sanctuary this coming Sunday for our monthly All-Age Worship service? Last month our village Girl Guides led a wonderful service. This month most of them will probably be away.

This Sunday, for those children in our village who won’t be at a sunny beach in Spain, they can come and see the rays of Light stream through our stained-glass windows – it won’t rain because we received the rainfall for August in July! They can feel the warmth bounce off the centuries-old stones in the nave as we sing praises and read the scriptures. They can be uplifted in song as one of their peers, an accomplished young violinist, helps me lead a few hymns. And they can see how much their presence and fellowship lifts the spirits of those who commune sweetly and regularly every Sunday. All Saints – both old and young alike.

Most of today’s parents are busy teaching their children the Faith in Nothing. Imparting a deep and abiding faith in God, indeed the Trinity, is not very high on their list of priorities. Oh, there are quite a few reasons for this, and some are valid.

Top Ten Reasons Why I Don’t Do Church

10. The old vicar we used to have hated me when I was a kid;
9. Church is so boring -- me and my child need to be engaged in the worship activity;
8. I couldn’t possibly be a hypocrite!
7. The church is so cold, my child will get sick;
6. We're so busy in the week, my child needs all day Sunday to revise for exams;
5. I don't read or study the Bible because it's not the vocation I chose;
4. I’m not charismatic; I prefer the higher end of the Cross;
3. I can't stand the organist; I prefer a worship band;
2. The music is dead;
1. Most of the people who show up are nearly dead.

At the end of the day, many of these reasons have settled into becoming excuses. We get what we give, and let's face it, the society we live in is one that would rather get. But quite rightly many of these Top Ten ought to be revisited by the church leaders. If the Bishops and Canons and Archdeacons and Rural Deans could get over their collective 'bums in seats' mentality, revise their property issues, and release certain theological holds -- over things like, oh, say 'communion by extension' -- to be more about the Kingdom of Heaven instead of the earthly bottom line, then they might get a picture of the results God intended in the first place when he decided to become incarnate through Jesus the Christ.

Ah, I digress. Back to the village...

Our sanctuary is childless on most Sundays.
It’s true that most of the month’s Sunday kid sightings are at our village churches’ joint Sunday School programme held in the Baptist Chapel. Even then, the most children aged 4 to 8 that come number only as many as six or eight. Children older than that are elsewhere with their parents, practicing their Faith in Nothing. It used to be that, at least in our village, if the children had parents who applied a Faith in Nothing, that they would at least be taught the hymns and scriptures in RE at school. But that is not the case now. Oh, they can sing the usual hymns they hear at football games and any weddings they might attend. I can count those on the fingers of one hand:

Abide with me
All things bright and beautiful
Amazing grace
Love’s divine
Jerusalem

'God save the Queen' is a given.

This Sunday, if we have more than one child visit our All-Age Worship (the young violinist is a teenager, and a visitor as well), what a celebration we shall have – break out the balloons! If it were up to me, I would have them dancing in the bright blue sky from the path leading into the church, and they would be floating from the ancient stones and pews as well. We will worship in sacred space and we will worship in splendour.

And hopefully, these precious children who grow up with a Faith in Nothing will discover not only a Faith in Something, but will see Christ incarnate within us and desire to know him personally.

(Hebrews 12.7-10 is the scripture from the TNIV bar on the left that displayed on the day I posted this.)

From the Far Side

2007-07-09T22:19:00.000+01:00

I always wanted my own Far Side Sheep. Now that I have them, they don’t quite know what to do with me.

Got a recipe for some good mint sauce?

(Picture taken of sheep in paddock behind our garden, shortly after lambing season.)

‘Americans like plates the size of their laps…’

2007-06-29T13:28:00.002+01:00

A view of the PYO strawberry fields from my garden. They also grow asparagas.

With the title of today's post's generalisation, AA Gill* has reported his first impression of Whole Foods Market’s debut to the UK. It is yet another food chain to transport itself from the vast American continent to the tiny spot of an island known as the British Isles. Krispy Kreme Donuts and Starbucks are both fairly new. We still do not have a Starbucks in our part of England. But my husband believes I could begin the façade of one, thanks to the Starbucks mug fetish I developed in the US years ago. As usual, I digress…

My husband and I were excited and enthralled when we visited the Whole Foods Market in Austin last November with a dear friend. What a fantastic place! We enjoyed our luncheon at the fish bar. Nothing like what AA Gill experienced. Well, perhaps a little. Our eyes popped out at the gargantuan displays of everything in sight, including the trolley cart escalator thingy that deposited shoppers directly to the large multi-storied car park. We just thought it was all so enormous because we were in Texas, and the capitol at that!

But Whole Foods is also known by some as Whole Paycheck, because it is yet another example of how consumerism can tell us to eat things that are healthy and good for us and then guilt us into overpaying for disciplining our eating habits. Supposedly. And it has set a fine example of that philosophy by opening its very first store in London’s High Street Kensington.

The Americans marketing Whole Foods to the UK have just made their product even more expensive, and ridiculously inaccessible:

We in the UK will now have to pay twice as much as shoppers in America, because of the pound/dollar conversion. American companies (e.g., Magellan, Cuisinart, Yankee Candles, just a few of my favourites), never convert their product pricing via the exchange rates, continually overcharging those of us who live outside the US.
Whole Foods in High Street Ken has provided absolutely no place for shoppers to park. For a ginormous market, it has sealed the fate of most shoppers who, even if they use a car, must park far, far away to cart their groceries by hand.
Because of its inaccessibility to the majority of shoppers who use public transport, said shoppers will be limited to what they can physically carry out of the store. On second thought, just two bags of healthful goodies could stretch one's financial limit anyway.
'Good nutrition' seeks out an elitist niche market. Most people who can shop regularly in High Street Ken are highly paid consumers to begin with. So with Whole Foods Market’s sincere spin that we should all have healthier foods for a correct lifestyle, they really only care about those consumers who can afford to pay their ridiculously priced food to begin with.

I doubt Whole Foods will ever move to any other parts of the UK. London has its urban sprawl as do most major cities around the world but it does not make up the entire land mass of England, Wales, and Scotland. (The folks in Northern Ireland are completely out of luck on this one.) It is certainly not worth the price of petrol here to venture into London and Kensington High Street. (We pay the equivalent of $100 to fill up a tank of gas in cars that, unlike most of those driven in Texas, are engineered for good gas mileage.)

My usual weekly jaunts to Waitrose and our local farmer's markets will do us just fine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

For my American friends, I am including links to some of The Times/Sunday Times articles about the opening of Whole Foods Market here in the UK. Along with some of the readers’ comments, they are a fascinating look at the differences both Americans and Brits/Welsh/Scots/Irish have over food and eating.

Keep in mind that British Baby Boomers experienced a much different upbringing with food and nutrition than we American Baby Boomers did. The devastation and affect of both World Wars and The Troubles to Great Britain – from the major loss of its work force to the struggles of government restructuring to a nation rebuilding after each of these events – lends a different perspective to life than what most of us growing up in America during the 50’s, 60’s, and 70’s knew. (It was only at the end of 2006 that the UK finally paid off its wartime debt to the United States government – 60 years and a couple of generations after WWII. My prayer is our country will never have to know what it is like to pay a war debt off to a 'friendly allied nation' as insistent upon being repaid as our's. In God we trust?)

*I begin with an excerpt from the piece in today’s Times by AA Gill, one of my favourite journalists here in the UK.

Whole Foods Market AA Gill: Table Talk (The Times)

This week’s restaurant is the grazing floor of Whole Foods Market, the organic department store you’ve been hearing so much about recently. The largesse of this born-again, healthy, feel-my-freshness emporium exposes one of those great rifts between Americans and us. Americans like quantity. The sight of towering displays of fresh food, a carnage of meat, oceans of fish, a sugary cornucopia of buns and breads, and vast wheels of cheeses, fills them with a sense of wellbeing and comfort. The land of unending plenty is what their ancestors went to. That’s why Americans like plates the size of their laps and portions bigger than a neocon’s hubris. Extravagance is their birthright.
We, on the other hand, when confronted with an unfeasible pile of skinned chicken breasts or a decomposing Babel of pilchards, immediately want to know who’s going to eat it all, and what are they going to do with the leftovers? Every one of the dozen people I’ve spoken to who’ve been to this shop worried about the waste. It can’t be given to tramps. Our history of food is scarred by shortages and rationing. We still feel guilty about not finishing our plates. Walking round this perishable glut, I had the distinct, uncomfortable sense that a voice would come over the Tannoy telling me I couldn’t leave until I’d finished all the greens.

Wholefood heaven? More like a (Medjoul) date from hell… Lisa Armstrong (The Times)

Is this the future of food? Lydia Slater (The Sunday Times)

2007-06-29T13:28:00.001+01:00

Isaiah and the Matzo Solution

2007-06-25T01:15:00.000+01:00

Down with a nasty cold, the worst of it striking me out from attending church. With the constant rhythm of the rain, sleeping was my greatest activity for peace and healing – rest for tonight will hopefully not be so elusive.

I hate it when I miss out on the fellowship of corporate worship, as I had to this past Sunday morning. But my dear love went, making apologies for me, and came home with some bits and bobs about what I missed. Of course, the day would be one of the Sundays our vicar was here to administer communion.

Usually, he tears off small bites of probably-not-too-freshly-baked white bread rolls from Sainsbury’s. One Sunday, he dropped a bite on the altar carpet, but with ecclesiastical speed applied the 5-second rule, and placed the morsel in my cupped hands before my eyes could protest.

‘The body of Christ, pinched off, wadded up, and dropped for your sins’.

And today, for the first time in months, wouldn’t you know he actually used wafers?!? Exciting stuff always happens when I can’t be at church.

The sacramental element representing Christ’s body used to be much blander where I came from. The church tradition of my childhood strictly forbade anything but Matzo Crackers – the very plain white crackly kind. Absolutely no salt, totally unleavened -- one large cracker, passed down the pew on a silver platter to be shared amongst at least 20 congregants (all those germs, and they complained about One Cuppers?). Our silent sacred hopes for Eucharistic reflection rudely interrupted by the sound of small high-pitched explosions of dried Matzos being cracked up into tiny fragments all over the sanctuary before being ingested and washed down with a thimbleful of the next element passed down the pews, Welch’s grape juice. Strewth! Religious teetotallers don’t do alcohol for church.

I'd like to know: Did Jesus go desperately hunting for Manischewitz just prior to the Last Supper? How many times did I wish he could be with us to turn that 6-month old vile Welch’s into some mighty fine wine?

When I got liberal I made my own communion bread. But after so many moves in my life, I’ve lost the recipe!! (Robyn, if you’re reading this and still have that recipe – you know the one that uses wheat flour, honey, and real butter – could you kindly post it in the comments section?)

This reminds me of all the flap and nonsensical debates about the spiritual use of women in worship and leadership, and the a cappella VS singing-with-instruments issues. But I won’t go there tonight. My head is still fully congested and can barely get around my pillow.

I will mention the blurb that caught my eye in our Weekly Benefice Leaflet that my dear one brought home after church. Our Old Testament Reading in worship was from Isaiah 65.1-9, and the blurb reads:

Isaiah tells his people that they have overlaid the true worship of God with many worthless and corrupt practices and rituals. This will make their healing all the more painful and costly.

The things I have let get in my way, and the obstacles I have set up for others, keeps healing at a great distance. The lesson I learned in last week’s sermon on forgiveness also adds into this one. In my spiritual quest to grow in relationship to God, I discover that holiness and wholeness are directly related. To become more Christ-like and explore and adapt to the holy space of his presence within me: that's the way to complete wholeness. My flaws, my sins, go through a healing process as I forgive those who have caused me pain, and as forgiveness is graciously extended to me (or even as I forgive myself).

Which brings me back to today’s blurb and thoughts from Isaiah 65.1-9. Allowing issues to seep into the sacred space of my relationship with Christ – or practices and rituals which might make me feel better and more comfortable – only serves to corrupt the healing process.

So, if the vicar doesn’t have time to make his own fresh communion bread, that’s okay. I’ll share my recipe with him. If I can find it...
_____________________________________

There's too much Deb...

2007-06-14T02:18:00.000+01:00

I just read in the Washington Post that Ruth Graham is in a coma. Now 87, she has suffered greatly for several years with degenerative osteoarthritis in her neck and back. To me, her life has always embodied such a spirit of grace and ultimate beauty in her love and service to the Lord. I was diagnosed with osteonecrosis in my knees in 2001, and have been learning about that kind of pain since. So Mrs Graham has been quite an inspiration and tremendous example to me of how one can endure and carry on.

Her husband, Billy, also today announced that both he and Ruth will be buried in the prayer garden at the Billy Graham Library in Charlotte, North Carolina. In this garden – which I someday hope to visit – there is a pathway in the shape of the Cross, and it is at the foot of this path they have chosen to be buried. Larry Ross, their spokesman, explained that this was ‘a symbolic decision to demonstrate both their reverence to God and their ongoing witness of their faith in Christ’.

For my entire life, this devoted Christian couple have managed to demonstrate such extraordinary faith and humbleness in the service of the ministry with which God endowed them – whether to the poorest of heart or amidst the rich and powerful in our world. At the recent dedication of the Billy Graham Library – attended by former presidents Carter, George HW Bush, and Clinton – Mr Graham commented how embarrassed he was about all the fuss.

The Washington Post article reminded me today that this great evangelist of our time felt like there was ‘too much Billy Graham’ in the exhibits.

"This building behind me is just a building," he said then. "It's an instrument, a tool for the Gospel. The primary thing is the Gospel of Christ."

How often have I told myself: ‘There’s too much Deb’ in the exhibits of my own ministry endeavours? How many times have I allowed my own passion and ‘creativity’ to get in the way of the genuine Gospel and knocked God over in the process to demonstrate my own spiritual museum to other’s whose paths somehow converge with mine?

As I pray for peace and God's abiding presence to cover the Graham family during this time, I lift my gratitude of thanks for God's gift of Ruth and Billy Graham. For how they both remind me still that my witness is just a tool for the Gospel. In this rather lame musical metaphor, my instrument’s not the thing – Christ’s Gospel is the main melody. My harmonies are only secondary at best.

_______________________________________________________

On this date of posting, my Blog's TNIV Daily Scripture from Isaiah 55.10-12 appropriately reminds me of Ruth Graham and her graceful waltz with God:

As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it
without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields
seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth:
It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and
achieve the purpose for which I sent it. You will go out in joy and be led forth
in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the
trees of the field will clap their hands.

MY GOD AND I

2007-03-11T13:19:00.000Z

This post, in part, is inspired by a recent post of my dear friend’s, Jim Clark, and also an unwarranted reflection on the dismal turnout for our vicar’s first attempt at Liquid Church (See last post. For a description of Liquid Church, click on that title for a link).

Sometimes I wonder if our American Christian society – which I, and others, see slowly seeping into the British church culture – hasn’t been going ‘Hollywood’ or ‘Nashville’. We can’t be ‘just’ loving, caring ministers from the pulpit or with children or in other ministries, whether as professionals or as laity. We have to be ‘celebs’ in whatever ‘field of ministry’ we were called to – a concept, it would seem, to be uniquely American. If we’re not, then those who could come to our churches, attend our programmes, etc., won’t, because they just have not heard enough great and marvellous things about what our clerical expertise has produced. In their estimation, the entertainment value is just not significant enough for them. Their benefits and our success seem to go hand in hand.

What is wrong with this picture?

A couple of illustrations I am familiar with:
Young composers/songwriters, no matter how theoretically and educationally trained, or how ’God inspired’, might never complete their projects or fully develop as the composer God intended for them to become. Why? Because before the notation is even correctly edited on their manuscripts, those who hold the power in the music industry have already thrown flaming arrows and judged a young composer’s work as insignificant, invalid, and against the bottom line: it won’t sell, it won’t have great video or marketable value, and it most definitely will not be a hit. The kid doesn’t have what it takes to be an instant celeb – in looks, weight, or bless, personality. Fix their teeth, work on their image, for God’s sake! Success and significance are merely pipe dreams. Forget that the song or work of music might be uplifting to a body of worshippers who just want to please the Lord.

Gone are the days when the composers of hymns – tune or text – remained faceless. The hymn was the cause celebre, not the hymn writer.

Within my own field of ministry, I am 'called' on at various times to produce music suitable for worship. Whether it meets a certain liturgical criteria, or fits in with a specific spiritual theme for the corporate benefit of the choir or congregation during worship, I am tasked to compose something, hopefully compelling and inspiring, much as a preaching minister would have to come up with the next week's homily, even when I might not feel so inspired.

Whatever 'work' comes out of the creative process, it is nonetheless my offering, one to be shared, yet more importantly one to be presented to my God. My prayer for the process is always twofold: one, that it will edify fellow worshippers, and two, that it will be pleasing to God. No matter if there will only be twelve choir members singing on the day, or a congregation of just thirty-five, whatever piece of music I supply for the worship has to function as an offering pleasing to Him. It might never be sung again. Some congregants might politely sing praises to my face of its artistic qualities, yet diss it behind my back. It quite possibly will not be accepted by a big established publishing house. It most definitely won't get a mention in Variety or be in the Top Ten on the radio. And (sniffle), it might never win that Dove or Grammy award!

How easily it is to paralyse our walk with God when the focus of our God-gifted abilities lies on our world’s spectacular circus of fame and fortune. Those of us who were born to please others can certainly fall prey to this spiritually debilitating paralysis, and our cycle for failure is set, sadly, for life.

There is a special hymn from my childhood, one I loved whenever we sang it in worship, and one I dearly miss hearing sung congregationally today. I will sometimes, as a reminder of its noble message and beautiful music, pull out my old hymnal and play it on the piano, committing it to heart once again.

I dearly hope the text of this hymn uplifts you. But keep in mind that even this lovely hymn offering had to suffer an earthly trial. Literally. In court. All the hours spent arguing its case, for both musicians involved, no doubt paralysed further service of real significance in their own strolls with God through verdant meadows green. At the end of the text, I have included a portion of the court’s ruling from Judge Duffy’s Opinion. (You can read the entire case by clicking on the link with his name. As a musician, I especially like that last paragraph below.)

As I continue this season of Lent, I am grateful for friends like Jim who – though far, far, away – help me wrestle with such reminders. So, for this week, perhaps my Lenten focus will be more on walking, step by step, with my loving God, who simply wants to clasp hands, and go for aye together.

Now where’s that hymnal?

_____________________________________

MY GOD AND I
IB Sergei (Wihtol), 1935

My God and I go in the field together;
We walk and talk as good friends should and do;
We clasp our hands,
Our voices ring with laughter;
My God and I walk through the meadow’s hue.
We clasp our hands,
Our voices ring with laughter;
My God and I walk through the meadow’s hue.

He tells me of the years that went before me:
When heavenly plans were made for me to be;
When all was but a dream of dim conception –
To come to life, earth’s verdant glory see.
When all was but a dream of dim conception –
To come to life, earth’s verdant glory see.

My God and I will go for aye together,
We’ll walk and talk as good friends should and do.
This earth will pass, and with it common trifles,
But God and I will go unendingly.
This earth will pass, and with it common trifles,
But God and I will go unendingly.

__________________________________________

OPINION BY JUDGE DUFFY

Wihtol VS Wells

Plaintiff Wihtol was born in 1889 in Riga, then a part of Russia, later a part of Latvia. He studied music in his childhood, and has followed that art professionally all his life. He has written many musical compositions, especially ecclesiastical pieces. He came to the United States in 1909, and to Chicago in 1936. Prior to August 15, 1935, while in California, he wrote the song "My God and I." Plaintiff testified that in his early boyhood, an organ grinder used to make weekly visits to the neighborhood in Riga where plaintiff lived, and that among the tunes played was one similar but not the same as the tune in "My God and I." He testified that he had never heard the song sung. He carried this tune in his mind for many years. Plaintiff's composition was designed primarily for church choirs and had soprano, alto, tenor and bass scores.

The accused composition is also entitled "My God and I." It appears in a song book entitled "Evangel Solos and Duets Number One." This book was published in 1951 by the Evangel Music Company, Inc., which defendant, his wife and another had organized as a corporation for that purpose. On the cover of the book appears "Written and Compiled by Kenneth H. Wells." A photograph of Mr. Wells also appears thereon. Wells was an ordained minister of an interdenominational group. From 1943 to 1951 he frequently used plaintiff's composition, and was aware of the favor with which plaintiff's "My God and I" had been received in church circles. The Evangel Music Company, Inc., was originally named a defendant herein, and was referred to as a firm. The corporation was dissolved and plaintiff consented in the District Court that it be dismissed from the case, and this was done.

The District Court found "In composing the accused song, the defendant used the melody of the plaintiff's song which he, the defendant, had committed to memory." The District Court found that the tune in suit was taken from an old Latvian, Italian or Russian folksong, and that tune was in the public domain for years prior to the time plaintiff copyrighted it in 1935. The Court said: "...the tune of the song in suit is incapable of being protected by copyright."

Of all the arts, music is perhaps the least tangible. Music is expressed by tonal and rhythmic effects. People can enjoy music without a technical understanding or education, but to make music available, someone must write it. To make a song available, someone must bring the notes and words together.

Liquid Church

2007-03-02T13:22:00.000Z

On tap refreshments…
Space to pray, reflect, meditate…
Times for worship and fellowship…
Come for as long or short a time as you wish.
Church has never been like this!

So the invitation reads. I live in a farming village where we get to share one vicar with three other rural villages. We all belong to the Junction 9* Benefice, thanks to the creativeness of our diocese (Anglican).

Liquid Church will meet this Saturday evening for the first time at the parish church in the village where our vicar lives.

Our vicar’s village has three pubs, one of which is across the road from the church and is a great place to park on Sunday mornings. Our village has only two pubs – and neither close by enough to park at. All that wasted space on a Sunday morning! Certainly doesn’t deter our dear vicar who so looks forward to finishing off the Eucharist wine at all four churches. ('O churl! ...and left no friendly drop to help me after?')
We’re curious.

If you received the same invitation through your door slot, what would your first impression be? And if you’ve attended a Liquid Church, what was your experience like?

*Number altered to protect identity.

Accelerando

2007-02-19T12:45:00.000Z

As the sands of time that make up this shortest month of the year are about to swirl swiftly to the bottom of the hourglass, I have just a few short days left to ponder my time of preparation before meeting with some of the children in our village. I am to help them prepare for and learn the music in their Easter musical, which they will present to the community the Sunday week from Easter Sunday. We will perform it in the Old School Hall. To be followed by afternoon tea.

It will be an ecumenical effort – combining kids from Key Stage 1 to Key Stage 3 who may or may not attend one of our three village churches: Anglican, Baptist, and Methodist. As a community of Believers we have joined hands, hearts, and resources, beginning this year, to meet with any children who would come for Sunday school. So it is through this format that we will be teaching and re-telling the Easter Story.

My husband and I moved from London to this village in the heart of the Shires six months ago. As most of the children will be meeting me for the first time, and will hear their first-ever American accent, I plead for prayers and forgiveness ahead of the musical task set before me. It is therefore right and proper that this week should be the advent of Lent, with Ash Wednesday in just two days. (Seems like only yesterday, in a different time and place, that I posted my thoughts about last year’s ashing.)

It is always exciting to meet with kids in a choral context for the first time. Most are about to discover the intricacies and musical idiosyncrasies of all things choral (well, in an age-appropriate manner, I hasten to add). I have directed six other children’s choral groups since living here in England, and learned that in addition to my having to translate whole notes, half notes, quarter notes, and eighth-notes, etc., into semibreves, minims, crotchets, and quavers, some children have the extra burden of trying to decipher my American vowels and consonants. Many are discovering that the ‘h’ consonant is a good thing and can keep their hands warm in a cold stone church or performance hall!

One thing I pray won’t be lost in translation: a fun time shall be had by all!

So with these things in mind, I leave you with the following …

THE YOUNG PERSON'S GUIDE TO THE CHORUS

In any chorus there are four voice parts: soprano, alto, tenor, and bass. Sometimes these are divided into first and second within each part, prompting endless jokes about first and second basses. There are also various other parts such as baritone, countertenor, contralto, mezzo soprano, etc., but these are mostly used by people who are either soloists, belong to some excessively hotshot classical a cappella group (this applies especially to countertenors), or are trying to make excuses for not really fitting into any of the regular voice parts, so we will ignore them for now. Each voice part sings in a different range, and each one has a very different personality. You may ask, "Why should singing different notes make people act differently?", and indeed this is a mysterious question which has not been adequately studied, especially since scientists who study musicians tend to be musicians themselves and have all the peculiar complexes that go with being tenors, french horn players, timpanists, etc. However, this is beside the point; the fact remains that the four voice parts can be easily distinguished, and I will now explain how.

THE SOPRANOS are the ones who sing the highest, and because of this they think they rule the world. They have longer hair, fancier jewelry, and swishier skirts than anyone else, and they consider themselves insulted if they are not allowed to go at least to a high F in every movement of any given piece. When they reach the high notes they hold them for at least half again as long as the composer and/or conductor requires. Then they complain that their throats are killing them and that the composer and conductor are sadists. Sopranos have varied attitudes toward the other sections of the chorus, though they consider all of them inferior. Altos are to sopranos rather like second violins to first violins – nice to harmonize with, but not really necessary. All sopranos have a secret feeling that the altos could drop out and the piece would sound essentially the same. They don't understand why anybody would sing in that range in the first place – it’s so boring. Tenors, on the other hand, can be very nice to have around; besides their flirtation possibilities (it's a well-known fact that sopranos never flirt with basses), sopranos like to sing duets with tenors, because all the tenors are doing is working very hard to sing in a low-to-medium soprano range while the sopranos are up there in the stratosphere showing off. To sopranos, basses are the scum of the earth – they sing too loud, are useless to tune because they're down in that low, low range – and there has to be something wrong with anyone who sings in the F clef, anyway.

THE ALTOS are the salt of the earth – in their opinion, at least. Altos are unassuming people who would wear jeans to concerts if they were allowed to. Altos are in a unique position in the chorus in that they are unable to complain about having to sing either very high or very low, and they know that all the other sections think their parts are pitifully easy. But the altos know otherwise. They know that while the sopranos are screeching away on a high A, they are being forced to sing elaborate passages full of sharps and flats and tricks of rhythm, and nobody is noticing because the sopranos are singing too loud (and the basses usually are too). Altos get a deep, secret pleasure out of conspiring together to tune the sopranos flat. Altos have an innate distrust of tenors, because the tenors sing in almost the same range and think they sound better. They like the basses, and enjoy singing duets with them – the basses just sound like a rumble anyway, and it's the only time the altos can really be heard. Altos' other complaint is that there are always too many of them and so they never get to sing really loud.

THE TENORS are spoiled. That's all there is to it. For one thing, there are never enough of them, and choir directors would rather sell their souls than let a halfway decent tenor quit, while they're always ready to unload a few altos at half price. And then, for some reason, the few tenors are always really good – it’s one of those annoying facts of life. So it's no wonder that tenors always get swollen heads – after all, who else can make sopranos swoon? The one thing that can make tenors insecure is the accusation (usually by the basses) that anyone singing that high couldn't possibly be a real man. In their usual perverse fashion, the tenors never acknowledge this, but just complain louder about the composer being a sadist and making them sing so high. Tenors have a love-hate relationship with the conductor, too, because the conductor is always telling them to sing louder because there are so few of them. No conductor in recorded history has ever asked for less tenor in a forte passage. Tenors feel threatened in some way by all the other sections – the sopranos because they can hit those incredibly high notes, the altos because they have no trouble singing the notes the tenors kill themselves for, and the basses because, although they can't sing anything above an E, they sing it loud enough to drown the tenors out. Of course the tenors would rather die than admit any of this. It is a little-known fact that tenors move their eyebrows more than anyone else while singing.

THE BASSES sing the lowest of anybody. This basically explains everything. They are stolid, dependable people, and have more facial hair than anybody else. The basses feel perpetually unappreciated, but they have a deep conviction that they are actually the most important part (a view endorsed by musicologists, but certainly not by sopranos or tenors) despite the fact that they have the most boring part of anybody and often sing the same note (or in endless fifths) for an entire page. They compensate for this by singing as loudly as they can get away with – most basses are tuba players at heart. Basses are the only section that can regularly complain about how low their part is, and they make horrible faces when trying to hit very low notes. Basses are charitable people, but their charity does not extend so far as tenors, whom they consider effete poseurs. Basses hate tuning the tenors more than almost anything else. Basses like altos – except when they have duets and the altos get the good part. As for the sopranos, they are simply in an alternate universe which the basses don't understand at all. They can't imagine why anybody would ever want to sing that high and sound that bad when they make mistakes. When a bass makes a mistake, the other three parts will cover him and he can continue on his merry way, knowing that sometime, somehow, he will end.

(Source: A Mystery to All)

RITMO and the BEATITUDES

2007-02-02T15:19:00.000Z

I do what I can to try and keep up with what is going on back home in America. Mainly because most of my friends and family back in the US expect or assume that I would know what is happening on the national level. To be honest, this sometimes annoys me, as I know they will not take the time and energy it requires to read up on what is happening in the community and country where God has placed me. I do care always about what is happening in their world. But if I let it consume the hours in my day to watch or read only American news, I become less of the community here in the UK.

So, to that effect, I try to gauge the mood and progress of American affairs through reading newspapers with columnists and journalists I find thought-provoking and globally savvy (i.e., The Washington Post), as well as finding out what goes on locally in the hometown where my folks live and hold our history (i.e., The Abilene Reporter News, also dubbed by locals as The Abilene Distorter News). One source informs me of the death of national figures who have inspired me, like Molly Ivins. The other notifies me of the deaths of those precious souls who have shaped and touched my life in personal and spiritual ways, before my family knows to E-mail me with the news.

(Warning: My husband says I'm starting to get preachy here...)

To go beyond these two print sources, as mentioned above, would short-circuit any energy for living and becoming engaged in the lives of those in my current village community in the UK. But sometimes I read a story that blends elements of my life on both sides of the ocean. And from today’s Washington Post comes the article, ‘Border Policy’s Success Strains Resources’, brilliantly written by Spencer S. Hsu and Sylvia Moreno, one I will not be able to put down for a good while.

After reading this, I felt compelled to write the authors the following:

Thank you for finally bringing some light to this situation, with an American twist. It reminds me of the woes we went through here in the UK with the Sangatte refugee camp, its consequences, and ultimate closure. Hard to believe it’s been almost four years! Detention centres for illegal immigrant detainees pose many problems, and rarely are ideal solutions borne through this story of the human saga. Judgment, ignorance, and naiveté are the attitudes which first must seemingly be conquered before positive progress and humane justice can get on with the task of helping illegal immigrants or citizens in the countries they run to rebuild lives or society. The comments to your article read so far attest to this. Many of those commenting do not seem to understand your article is addressing illegal immigrants who are non-Mexicans. The vitriol is glaring. I am saddened, but not totally disheartened. Yet.

By the rest of the world’s standards, the saga of all those involved in these refugee camps, for both the American citizen and the illegal immigrant, is just beginning.

This excerpt from the article got my immediate attention:

Ringed by barbed wire, a futuristic tent city rises from the Rio Grande Valley in the remote southern tip of Texas, the largest camp in a federal detention system rapidly gearing up to keep pace with Washington's increasing demand for stronger enforcement of immigration laws.

About 2,000 illegal immigrants, part of a record 26,500 held across the United States by federal authorities, will call the 10 giant tents home for weeks, months and perhaps years before they are removed from the United States and sent back to their home countries.

The $65 million tent city, built hastily last summer between a federal prison and a county jail, marks both the success and the limits of the government's new policy of holding captured non-Mexicans until they are sent home. Previously, most such detainees were released into the United States before hearings, and a majority simply disappeared.

The new policy has led to a dramatic decline in border crossings by non-Mexicans, according to the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement agency.

I highlighted ‘non-Mexicans’ because many readers who have commented have misread the aim of this article’s authors to show what is being done for those illegal immigrants who come from other nations besides Mexico.

It is already being dubbed Ritmo. But it is hardly The Ritz for those unfortunate enough to be placed there. Indeed, it belongs to a group of centres that will take a while to get a 5-star rating:

An inspector general's report last month on a sampling of five U.S. immigration detention facilities found inhumane and unsafe conditions, including inadequate health care, the presence of vermin, limited access to clean underwear and undercooked poultry. Although ICE standards require that immigrants have access to phones and pro bono law offices, investigators found phones missing, not working or connected to non-working numbers.

Illegal immigration is a topic that has polarised not only the American citizens, but citizens in the UK. Feelings of resentment, hatred, and injustice stemming from those who are blessed to be born with ‘constitutional rights’ seem to supersede anything that resembles Christ-like compassion. Tolerance becomes a dirty word.

How would The Beatitudes of our Lord reside inside the walls of places like Ritmo?

Turn the coin and fly into another continent to ask that same question. My husband and I recently viewed ‘Blood Diamond’, and were reminded of the squalor of humanity in the visage of a refugee camp inhabited by one million desperate souls, mostly illegal refugees from neighbouring African nations. I could just about taste the red, gritty dust between my teeth and feel the flies bombard my eyes and nose.

In a nation – and yes, a state like Texas with its preponderance for Christian church culture unlike any other in the world -- which has sold its brand to the rest of the world as a caring Christian nation with solid family values, one does not expect to have to ask that question and demand answers. But apparently its time has come.

With roughly 1.6 million illegal immigrants in some stage of immigration proceedings, ICE holds more inmates a night than Clarion hotels have guests, operates nearly as many vehicles as Greyhound has buses and flies more people each day than do many small U.S. airlines.

Many American and British citizens want to know why deportation of an illegal immigrant cannot happen immediately. For most, the question is a knee-jerk reaction. They have not taken the time to talk to immigration experts or attorneys in their midst, or even invested energy in a relationship with a foreigner, legal or otherwise. It’s probably been years since they had to sit it out in a boring social studies, world history, or geography class. None of those courses would ever become relevant to their daily lives. It becomes much easier to judge the surface than to help solve the problems of those who become entangled beneath that deep, murky surface.

But for those of us who have become familiar with the processes, we first learn and then always become aware of the many complexities of the laws involved, national and international. Within these laws are many shades of grey. When I worked as the office manager for a British consultancy group seconded to a utilities company in Texas, they were required by their visa stipulations to return home every three months in order to hold onto their visa to stay in the US and retain their work permit.

Sounds simple enough, right? But after many of them had been working legally in America for their first five months, I learned through our company’s New York office that the director of US operations was flagrantly flaunting the rules. He was British, of Indian descent, and had previously been fired by one of the Big Five accounting firms for dodgy dealings. For months he refused to listen to us when we warned him he needed to abide by the advice of a legit immigration law firm in Manhattan. While he was secretly scamming the company, he also threatened to fire some of us Americans who were concerned about the legal ramifications. Unbeknownst to the diligent hard-working Brits whom I was looking after in Texas, they thought their visa status was solid.

It was a tense situation in our Texas and New York offices. By the time we exposed the truth and forced the director’s hand with the powers that be back in the UK, it was too late for one of the young consultants and his family to return to the US. In a sense, they were fortunate. But it was a sad thing for me to ring them up on their mobile phone, whilst they were fighting traffic in Central London, to tell them they could not come back due to an illegal and irresponsible oversight by the director (who is still scamming, but as a private contractor). Instead we had to make arrangements to ship all their belongings, including their baby’s furniture and equipment, back to the UK without them being present. As angry as they were, at least this good British family did not have to suffer the humiliation of being hand-cuffed and detained whilst wading through the process of deportation in a cold prison-like facility, with no relatives or close friends nearby.

Taylor, Texas near Round Rock and Austin, will soon become home for illegal immigrant families when a new centre welcomes them with 512 beds. Those in Texas who harbour objections to the illegal Mexicans in their midst might all breathe a sigh of relief to know those beds will only be slept in by illegals from other nations.

With all the Christian communities in Taylor, Round Rock and Austin, how many will be genuinely interested in finding out about these newest neighbours? The website for Taylor, invites those coming to the city ‘… to explore Taylor...A city with a true sense of community, and a clear vision for the future!’ Wow. How honest are they about this statement? According to today’s Washington Post article:

Legal advocates contend that some of the older facilities where immigrants are housed are in deplorable condition and that growing pains afflict even new facilities.

Under fire in Taylor, for example, ICE has expanded hours of daily schooling for children from one to seven hours to meet Texas guidelines.

If we are Believers we should take politics out of the equation when looking at the living conditions our democratic government imposes on people, many who do innocently get caught in the trap of our immigration laws. I am also speaking of those here in the UK. Those who bled through the Channel Tunnel and are still here after the closure of the Sangatte refugee camp in France, near Calais, are being sent to appalling old military facilities. So it is certainly not any better than those conditions found in Texas. Consider what is being observed at places like Ritmo:

Detainees are subject to penal system practices, such as group punishment for disciplinary infractions. The tents are windowless and the walls are blank, and no partitions or doors separate the five toilets, five sinks, five shower heads and eating areas. Lacking utensils on some days, detainees eat with their hands.

Because lights are on around the clock, a visitor finds many occupants buried in their blankets throughout the day. The stillness and torpor of the pod's communal room, where 50 to 60 people dwell, are noticeable.

According to Hsu and Moreno, Jodi Goodwin, an immigration lawyer from Harlingen:

‘… described a group of women who huddled in a recreation yard on a recent 40-degree day with a 25-mph wind. "They had no blanket, no sweat shirt, no jacket," she said. "Officers were wearing earmuffs, and detainees were outside for an hour with short-sleeved polyester uniforms and shower shoes and not necessarily socks."
The assistant director of ICE detention and removal operations, Gary Mead, seems at best naïve in his current assessment of the long-term solution:

"The short answer is, it is not sustainable," Mead said. "There comes a
point where we can't detain any more people. Hopefully, prior to getting there, the deterrence factor will kick in."

His short answer is correct. However, if he and the others in command of ICE were to take any lessons from Sangatte, Darfur, Ethiopia, etc., they will note that there has never been a successful deterrence factor.

But what would happen if just one church community close to Ritmo became involved and were to extend The Beatitudes of Christ inside just one of those Kevlar tents?

Grill the Vicar!

2007-01-28T01:14:00.000Z

The other night our village met in the village hall to grill the Anglican vicar, the Methodist minister, and the Baptist pastor. It was quite well attended, and some serious and well-though-out questions skewered the ecumenical trio.

One aim of this scorching event on a cold wintry night was for us all to get to know one another better. Although the Baptist pastor has served in the village for donkey’s years, both the other clergy have not been here quite the year, and their responsibilities include three to four other nearby village churches. By the time the collective sweat was mopped up from the three at the end of the grilling, we all walked away feeling very fortunate to have their spiritual leadership in our midst.

Prior to the grilling on the stage, the first dinner was served, which probably said a lot about the religious affiliation of the churchgoers present:

The Anglican vicar served his homemade chilli and rice in two very large black cauldrons. By all accounts the chilli was quite spicy. Angilcans know how to party!

The Methodists doled out generous helpings of Shepherd’s Pie cooked with authority by the lay lady who runs Auntie’s Kitchen (not to mention the Methodist minister!). She also made sure there was not one, but two fantastic puds on offer and both topped with thick cream:

A lovely fruit crumble;
A creative type of Black Forest gateau, but with a very naughty plain
chocolate icing, and sans the Kirsch – a true teetotaller’s delight!

And the Baptists? They brought an abundance of healthy appetites!

Diary Daze

2007-01-13T14:00:00.000Z

Here it is, close to the middle of January, and I’m just now deciding on a 2007 calendar for us to hang on the wall in an obvious place for both of us. I thought it would be safer to buy one online this year, instead of walking into a bookstore to find one, and depleting the bank account further after the holidays.

Bookstores are like candy stores to me, and like the library I grew up going to in Colorado. I can never walk out the doors with just the one item! My senses go on overload – the sights of stacks of books waiting for me to explore, the smells of aged wooden bookshelves, the cosy atmosphere of hidden reading nooks and crannies, the sounds of hushed tones, or the quiet voids filled with thinking people mulling over the prose and literary architecture of works they are reading… but I digress.

So to the Amazon my fingers flew and into the search field I type only one word: calendar. Forty-one thousand, four hundred and sixty-eight possible choices appear. But, wait! I need a large cup of home brewed coffee and some yummy bits to nibble while I peruse this massive selection. As I take my first sip of brewed coffee from the freshly ground coffee beans I ordered online from Whittard’s and have poured into one of my many Starbuck’s mugs, it appears from first glance that Amazon does not seem to have organised their protracted selection of this year’s calendars, not even alphabetically.

What kind to buy, and how many calendars do we actually need?

As I scan the titles and thumbprint pictures, the obvious calendar types are revealed: the Dilberts; the Simpsons; the many Far Sides; nature; your favourite celeb; sports; movies; cooking and cuisine; fire fighters; Klimt and other artists; gorgeous bodies (women); gorgeous abs (men); gorgeous engines (trains); Cats and dogs and yet more cats.

I’ve culled about 20 of the calendar titles from the few pages that sort of screamed at me. I did not have time to read all of them, order one (or two), and enjoy the rest of the things I have to do today. So here they are, not in any particular order:

Why Do Men Have Nipples Page-a-Day 2007 Calendar: Mercy! And why not?

Get Ready for 2007: I feel so guilty for procrastinating.

Stitch and Bitch Calendar: Where does that needle go?

The Sacred Journey 2007 Calendar: Daily Journal for Your Soul: Followed by …

Messages from Your Angels Perpetual Flip Calendar (A Calendar to Use Year after Year): Author, Doreen Virtue.

Mum’s Family Planning Calendar: These seem ever trendy and ready to burden Mum with more baggage for her to keep up with– they come with assortments of stickers and fridge magnets.

Retro Mama 17 Month Keep-It Planner/Calendar: August 2006 to December 2007 with Other (Calendar): I could order this with ‘Apples for Jam (Recipes for Life)’ and get such a deal! Comes with ‘Handy pocket for notes and reminder’, but there’s a catch – it started in August 2006, and I already feel SO behind! I guess that’s the point with being retro, so NO guilt here!

Cliff Richard – Bachelor Boy 2007 Calendar Includes A2 Poster: Good grief! Won’t he be celebrating his 61st birthday this year? He tries too hard!

Witches Datebook 2007: Hmmm … this one gets a four-star rating, and is followed by …

Nuns Having Fun Calendar (Wall): A fond reminder of my days as a chirpy Single. Rated R for ‘Righteous’, or ‘Rollicking for Singles’? (Cliff Richard should be so happy.)

The 2007 Calendar of Bunny Suicides: Oddly enough, Amazon informs me that ‘Customers who purchased this item also viewed’ the ‘Nuns Having Fun’ calendar. And the correlation is…?

Insight from the Dalai Lama: 2007 Day-to-Day Calendar: Anne Geddes also has some inspirational thoughts to share with us. Surely Joel Osteen has come out with some current gems of wisdom for sale this year? Could help Bunny if Bunny has money.

Audrey Hepburn Square Calendar 2007: When was Audrey Hepburn ever square?

Sudoku: 2007 Page-a-Day Calendar: Will this daily workout insure against any memory loss for this year?

The Original Sudoku Calendar 2007 (Page-a-Day Calendar): Now I’m confused.

Mensa 365 Brain Puzzlers Page-a-Day Calendar: Ahhhh …here's the answer!

Homeland Insecurity (Complete News Archives): How can this help?

Official ‘CSI’ Calendar 2007: Wow, ‘no image available’… must be really gruesome compared to last year’s!

How to Insult, Abuse and Insinuate in Classical Latin: Man-oh-man! All that time wasted in the bazaars of Kandahar and Cairo, not to mention sitting in classes for French, German, and Spanish.

Which brings me to No. 20 ...

Fact or Crap: It’s Your Call (Page-a-Day Calendars): Amazon's Perfect Partner to this is ‘The Best of 14,000 Things to be Happy About Calendar 2007’.

A calendar purchase is certainly a personal and revealing statement. So I ordered two – one for hubby and one for me.

Now, which other wall is crying out for Calendar No. 3?

An Open Door for 2007

2007-01-09T02:36:00.000Z

After a LONG but much-needed break, it's time to renew my mind and post some thoughts afresh!

I have missed the terrific Blogging Buddies made last year, and am looking forward to catching up with you all in the days and weeks ahead.

So until the next cup of coffee during my break from practicing (piano!), peace and blessings be yours...

Melting ...

2006-06-14T00:40:00.000+01:00

I’m trying really hard not to melt. In the process, my brain is perspiring.

Poor little Dee-Oh'-Gee (our eight-year old puppy) is wilting.

And forget my chocolate stash – the hideout cupboard is a raging river!

We are experiencing one of our rare heat wave days here in the UK. For several days now.

It’s been 32C (90F). Very few houses in the UK are set up with air-conditioning. When my friends here find out I lived in the Southeast and Southwest for years, they assume that my skin is a fire retardant. They love the heat, and ardently seek it out when they go on holiday. What they do not realise, though, is that their two-week fun-in-the-sun becomes unbearable for those who have to live in it day in and day out.

Air-conditioning is the magic word, and for most Americans we take it for granted – until we live in places where it is not a priority.

Two items do not exist in abundance on this green isle: ice cubes and air conditioning. My brother, the AC/heating engineer, asked me recently why we don't have it in these Isles. Well, the reason I'm given when I ask that Q is that it's never hot enough long enough to justify the cost it takes to produce the energy needed. The ocean currents are another reason given for the perpetual coolness. We see so few sunny hot days that when one appears, the consensus is to embrace the heat and tough it out. Discard the fleece and rev up the soft top!

Whatever one's belief or scientific analysis, the effects of global warming are certainly being felt here. Most do not expect a 'heat wave' in England until sometime in mid-July. They certainly don't expect to drip with sweat over their strawberries at Wimbledon. Sweat is for players, not observers.

The 'extreme' heat began showing up earlier in the summer of 2003, when thousands of people died of heat stroke in France. At least the French owned up to this tragedy. Tony Blair's government did not acknowledge the problem in the UK, and heat-related deaths went unreported. The NHS was taking other hits that year. In those days, I went to five stores before I could get my hands on a pedestal fan. There were two left. We kept one upstairs, so sleep would not be a fitful task. As luck would have it, my husband froze. He loves the heat, and sleeps wrapped up like a cocoon in the duvet. We ended up giving the other one to my step-daughter, who had just given birth to our first grandchild. She was worried about the 'thrush' the baby could not seem to get rid of.

'Honey, that's not thrush, that's heat rash.' A new phenomenon for these parts.

In the summer of 2004, the heat wave came earlier and stayed longer (six weeks, by my count). As soon as I saw them in the stores, I found the most wonderful remote-controlled, oscillating tower fan. If angel's wings could cool you off, it would feel like one of these!

In 2005 I added a midget tower fan to the dining room, and the trio completed the flow of cooling breezes throughout the house. But the cooling trio does not quite do the trick when it gets to 30C and above. If the temp is 86F outside, then inside it feels at least 10 to 15 degrees hotter. The air does not stir.

Last year we went to Bluewater (the largest shopping mall in Europe) to cool off. It was a good theory, except for a few glitches:
-- It was our anniversary, so we had lunch at TGIFriday's. As we sat at our table by the atrium-style window, we noticed the stifling heat. Our server apologised and said that the AC had given out. It had worked, but wasn't strong enough to endure the extreme heat. The ice machine also could not cope. They had to bring a generator in, as an aid only for the kitchen staff. So we toughed it out with the other diners, knowing that ...
-- ... at the cinema we would enjoy a couple of hours of respite. When we got to the movies and went to concessions, their ice machine was on the fritz. And they had run out of soft drinks.
-- Most of the AC units in the mall were not efficient enough to withstand the prolonged heat spell.

My husband works in a huge office complex known for its architecturally brilliant atrium. This week of heat, a lethargic work force has meant projects are now further behind. One of John's work mates just bought an air-conditioning unit from B&Q. He confessed that ‘it worked really well!’.

When John and his work colleagues were seconded to a project in Texas, three of the blokes immediately went out and hired soft tops. Well, that first summer became notorious for 100 consecutive days with temperatures over 100F. The guys with the soft tops were so disappointed! It was way too hot to drive with the soft tops down and breathe at the same time. They also could not enjoy the swimming pools at their posh corporate digs, because the water was hot enough for a cup of tea.

I'm trying to look on the sunny side. As I lay in bed the other night, unable to feel a cool breeze, and trying to keep Dee-Oh'-Gee from stroking out, I tried to think of all the happy times when I was a kid in the good old days, before AC was a standard feature for me or cars. However did we survive the heat back in the '50's and '60's?

I grew up in Colorado. We did not need AC. Just open the windows and let the fresh mountain air blow through the house. Heavenly! And shade or a willow tree really worked. But then we would have to drive down to West Texas for our summer holiday extravaganza with the grandparents. Their house would have a ceiling fan in the living room. In the bedrooms there was usually a pedestal fan.

Heat did not seem to be extreme enough to deter my brothers and cousins from chinaberry fights, or from catching and training horny toads. If it were too hot, we would find some shade and set up a Kool-Aid stand. We had lots of ice. My uncles would appear with watermelons, and later we might help make homemade ice cream.

Bedtime was a mystery, though. We cousins would sleep on one of Grandma's big beds and moan about the heat. Couldn't sleep. Mother or one of the aunts would come in and reassure us that we could sleep at the foot of the bed. It's always cooler at the foot of the bed. Why is this?

One summer, when refrigerated window units were becoming the new trend, we drove up to my other Gram’s house just in time to catch her fixing the broken unit. Just as we were about to get her attention, the fan belt slipped and she lost her index finger at the first knuckle. We were just in time to take her to A&E. She gave up a lot to keep us cool.

When I was 12, we left the balmy mountain air of Long's Peak in Colorado for the poppy laden deserts of southern Afghanistan. It could get up to an arid 120F in the shade. But we had the Corps of Engineers, generators, and adobe dwellings on our side. Afghan Kuchis (nomads) are hardy creatures -- they wear black, and have AC genes in their DNA. They also take after their camels. Amazing.

Perhaps English Heritage is in a conspiracy to include AC and a steady supply of ice to their mission of suppression. If that's the case, then I'm feeling kind of rebellious.

Iced tea, anyone?

Pentecost Sunday

2006-06-05T13:13:00.000+01:00

Some reflections …

50 days after Jesus walked out of that tomb!

The seventh Sunday after Easter – God really likes the number ‘7’.

In the Old Testament, a festival thanking God for the early Spring harvest (Shavout).

50 days after the beginning of Passover.

God’s Spirit is sent forth.

The visiting vicar yesterday, in a rather impersonal sermon, referred to Pentecost as ‘the Big Bang of Christianity’. He had just asked the kids in the choir what Pentecost Sunday reminded them of, and one of them suggested the Big Bang. He thought that was great. I’m still trying to come to terms with that analogy and his wholehearted endorsement. (I think too much!)

I understand that women and children were excluded from calculations by Jewish scribes and writers, so were there more than 3,000 present on the first day of Pentecost?

One of my friends leant over to me during the sermon and asked if women were also baptised on Pentecost. What a sad thought, to assume we women might have been excluded. But I don’t think so. I know that, unlike the Jewish male customs of the day, Jesus engaged in vital friendships with women – offered them his healing touch, approached and conversed with women publicly, and had no qualms with regards to teaching them in the same company with men (presumably outside of the Temple). So when he gave the Great Commission, he charged his disciples to:

'…go and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father
and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit…’ (Matthew 28.19-ff)
‘…Go into all the world and preach the gospel to all creation. Whoever believes and is baptized shall be saved…’ (Mark 16.15-16)

I have to believe that from Jesus’ non-traditional examples and unique perspective women (and children!) are indeed included and welcomed by his invitation of grace and love.

In early Spring, everything is fresh. New life begins – little lambs and graceful colts appear on the fields. A varied palette of green shimmers as the sunlight dapples through the new leaves on the trees. Flowers are blooming, rich in colour and permeating the air with a blend of sweet fragrances.

Those of us affected by the passion of Christ are moved into effective service to live out his examples amongst those around us. In today’s world of war, corruption, religious and racial hatred, disease, poverty – all ills present during Jesus’ lifetime as a man walking with us – Pentecost can signal to us a call for hope and refreshing renewal.

The story of Pentecost as told in Acts 2 is one of amazing mystery. It’s okay if I don’t have to solve the mystery right now. But if I ever have a moment of wonder about the workings of God in my life, or consider the thoughts, words, and gifts he blesses me with, then I hope I can praise him with enough abandon to show him how much I love him.

Whenever I feel a fresh Spring breeze, I feel God’s presence close by. We attended a strawberry tea this weekend to help a sweet friend celebrate her 90 graceful but vibrant years of life. Over the many years she has cultivated the most beautiful cottage garden – gathering, planting, and treasuring special cuttings shared amongst friends and neighbours. To sit in its midst, surrounded by all the fragrant flowers and rich colours, enjoying our cream tea with this special lady and friends was a taste of Heaven! Just to worship in a refreshing breeze of peace and calm he sends is enough to know he cares and exists.

The nature of God's Holy Spirit is all encompassing, reaching out to those of us who will follow and connecting us to those who seek, or have yet to.

My walk on this journey is not a lonely one, but is supported and guided by the gifting and encouragement of the Holy Spirit.

Really – who needs church?

2006-05-23T01:30:00.000+01:00

Why is it more meaningful to get to know people outside of a church building than inside one? We went to a Safari Supper this weekend, hosted by our church’s social committee. We had such a great time getting to know people who we have seen in church for the past ten months we have been attending. (And by the feasts we fed on, we know we have found a church with some great cooks!)

Outside of the church building, everyone seems more natural, genuine with each other. If we want to genuinely relate to one another, we do not have to wear a dog collar. We don’t have to posture in front of each other wearing cassocks, choir robes, surplices, stoles, or any other garments from a church kit. (This church kit also includes special frocks and trendy daywear for evangelicals who threw out dog collars with King Charles I.)

Today, when the vicars wear sandals and shorts underneath their cassock, what does that communicate to the rest of us? Are they trying to relate to us, or just flipping off the traditions?

Our buildings, facilities, clothing, music, worship props, bells and smells, theological vocabulary – and yes, even our liturgy – have become masks for us all to hide behind. We’ve got saying ‘the peace’ to each other down pat. That has become the extent of our outreach within our community of faith.

It is not easy being new to a church community, no matter where you are in your faith walk. In the short time my husband and I have been attending our church, we have been blessed to get to know a few in the group who are quite genuine, and do not seem to mind newcomers coming in and messing with their history. That does not make things less awkward on Sunday, though. Why does it have to seem like an eternity before you feel like you have cracked the code to people’s hearts and minds? My husband – new to the church going practice – has likened being part of a church community to that of belonging to the AmDram crowd. Except if one fails with the church folk, what, we become AmDamned?

There are some weeks when ya just don’t know how to pray or what to think. If the church folk don’t like how you rocked their pew, or have a ‘suggestion’ to make, they send you a spiteful E-mail or cryptic text message. The cowards don’t have the spirit to get to know you better by just picking up the phone and ringing you for a civil, Christian conversation. Honestly, they assume the worst in you before they even take the time to get to know you.

And if you are a newcomer to the church, whatever you do, don’t volunteer to be helpful! The talents Jesus speaks about? Those are just a part of the fairy tale. They don’t belong to real people. Just the people in the Parables. If real people try to genuinely share their talents and grow their spiritual gifts amongst those who own longer histories inside the church community than you do, watch out. There are bouquets of egos that will soon wilt, and loads of knickers will get wadded up and lobbed back at you. You will deny others their positions of power in their faux holy fiefdoms. More spiteful E-mails, more cryptic text messages.

Who needs prayer? As a caveat for belonging, you could ask for prayers by quietly having your name listed in the monthly prayer book that goes out to the entire parish. The emphasis is on quiet, because the only time you will hear others praying out loud for you is if they are authorised by the diocese. And don’t go asking anyone if they have any prayer needs. God might have authorised you to pray out loud, but keep that a secret. You don’t want to offend.

Who cares what the Bible says these days? The only time it should be read is within Sunday’s liturgical setting, when the Big Red Book travels up the aisle with fanfare to be ‘read to the people’. It might add a nice warm fuzzy of drama mysterium, but honestly, who needs to discuss the content of what was read during the other days of the week? If your friends are confused, curious, or get bored easily with profundity, let them read Dan Brown. If you even own a study Bible – you know, the kind with all the helpful academic commentary, topical concordance, historical timelines, and archaeological info – then by all means, hide it now! You are only allowed it if you are going into the ministry as a vocation. Why would you want to contaminate your church friends with a Bible study in your own home, for God’s sake?

So why would anybody want to go to church?

Come to think of it, the examples we have in the four gospels of Jesus relating to people – his friends, his family, people of political and religious influence, even total strangers – are rarely set inside the boundary walls of the Temple. As Jesus spent time with others, he met with them inside their homes, on country strolls, out boating, in the marketplace, at parties, when they were sick, smelly, and ugly, and while they were dying. Sure, he was a regular at Temple worship, but his attendance does not seem to define the essence of his relationships. As a woman, I take note that his theological discussions with women happened nowhere near the Temple. In fact, the few instances when his presence at the Temple is mentioned are usually in context with confrontation. People didn’t need E-mail or use text messages in those days. They just hurled trenchant queries or stones.

Perhaps going to church is not the most essential part of this present journey. I’m almost certain God has created a few different road maps. Do you think I could get one that’s colour-coded and more user friendly?

Just don’t send me a text message. Please.

What's the point in being legal?

2006-05-08T12:45:00.000+01:00

As Americans, we have created, or hugely added to, this problem of ILLEGAL immigration in the USA because of our inconsistent behaviour as a society to deal with the problem head-on way before it ever burgeoned into the 11-mil millstone it has now become. Those of us who are Christ-followers can include ourselves for not taking some stands on the issue when we have had the chance.

Having lived and travelled in foreign countries myself, my family always paid our dues when it came to respecting the laws and ways of a country to which we were alien. We never would have presumed to be illegal, however. But we were Americans, and were not fleeing our homeland due to despot rulers, blight, famine, or other plague-like conditions. (Perhaps we left America to re-discover what our Christian values were really all about, but if we did God was several steps ahead of us on that journey before we realised it.)

As far as Mexico is concerned, I wish America had been more pro-active about its relations with the place since the 1800’s, and after the Alamo! But our isolationist views back then, while we were still establishing our American Way through war and Dominion Building across the Wild West prohibited us from becoming a humane border partner. So today we have a lot of historical baggage to bring to the table of commerce and compassion. Not to mention our penchant for using and abusing illegal substances. If we could get over those obstacles, then perhaps we could progress beyond the festering that has finally raised its ugly head.

In Texas, where I used to live, there were lots of nice, decent church-going people I knew who hired illegal aliens to tend their gardens, clean their houses, and play ‘nanny’ to their kids. The ones who hired the illegal Mexican nannies still have my head spinning. Some of these upwardly mobile wealthy Christian families in Highland Park and North Dallas had to have not one but two illegal Mexican nannies to keep up with the Joneses. To assuage their consciences – I’m sure being Christ-followers they had consciences, so maybe they were assuaging their guilt – they explained that having a nanny or two who spoke Spanish (but no English) to care for their little darlings would be a wonderful, two-fold contribution: their kids could learn Spanish in a ‘natural’ environment, and the nannies would be learning English in a safe home environment. If they had an illegal Mexican housemaid in addition to the nannies then all the Mexicans underneath their palatial roofs could bounce off each other in this language-learning environment. How cool is that? :) WOW!

Behind closed doors, though, not much learning of Spanish or literacy seemed to be taking place. You could tell, from attending one social event to another, that not much had been done to assimilate the illegal help into the family community. Neither the well-meaning parents who hired, nor their kids, could speak Spanish well after all that ‘immersion’. And when party guests came to dinner, the nannies and maids were held to a class system, and were not welcomed to integrate with the guests. Wasn’t there supposed to be a community of Christ-followers under this roof?

Invariably, when the INS came calling in one form or another, these impressive church families, and other American patriots, groused about the problems and pouted for weeks. Should they have to be the ones to pay to legally sponsor their nannies or housemaids? And what about when these people get sick? If one of the doctor friends from the country club isn’t available to help out then where to turn? And what to do about the IRS? Some nannies and maids were live-ins. Convenient, because that meant that the actual hard-earned wages for looking after the runny-nosed rich kiddies and teaching them how to speak Spanish could be barely subsistence level. Wealthy people sure love a bargain!

A bargain isn’t such a great deal if you have to pay to legally sponsor an alien from any country. A bargain isn’t such a great deal if that means you will have to ensure a good strong competitive wage. And a bargain really isn’t such a great deal if you have to pay health benefits to take care of the alien in your employ.

The only way to get an alien for a bargain is to make and keep them illegal.

Great concept, eh?

If Christ-followers are in the position to hire illegal aliens, then why can’t they blow the above concept out of the water and get together to:

Humanely find a collective way to financially sponsor the illegal alien -- their own or the ones(s) they share -- so that the alien becomes legal?
Resolve to pay the alien decent and liveable wages, while waiting for America’s bureaucracy to get its processing act in gear. Has John 3.16 been thrown away at Border Control?
Take financial and administrative responsibility for the health care and benefits of the alien?
Take a sincere and vested interest in the emotional well being of the alien, and his/her dependants?
Adopt an itinerant family – take responsibility for the usually illegal and illiterate family of a student who attends school with the church children. There are legal, Catch-22 problems for teachers to become so entrenched in the lives of these students. Some try, and risk their jobs and future employability. They sure could use some help!
Tenaciously and openly petition and campaign the Mexican and Central American governments to improve the economic and political landscape of their own countries?
Find friendlier ways to engage with the countries below the southern border of the United States?
Openly and actively petition and campaign the local governments to get busy and lead the way towards amicable and humane solutions to the problem their bureaucracy created, with American support. How many Americans have ever taken the time to acquire and read an application for immigration to begin with?

Why expend so much energy and time on angst and hand-wringing instead of just getting on with it and doing the right thing to take care of these people who come to cross our borders illegally (not just the border with Mexico), invited by decades of bureaucratic mismanagement and the socio-economic greed of ‘good-hearted’ Americans?

I am told, almost daily by virtue of my American accent, that I was born impatient because of where I come from. The illegal immigration problem in America took at least a couple of centuries to create. We impatient Americans must be resigned to the fact that if we do not take a more active and collective stance on this inhumane problem of our own making now, it could probably take another century or two to undo. Not acceptable!

So, what has my own contribution been?

Well, I married a foreigner. My husband can also make that same claim. And before anyone points fingers at me and says I made that choice – I would agree! – allow me to just say that after 47 years of remaining single, and listening every decade of my singleness to Apostle Paul and well-spoken Christian women and men who either counselled, sympathised, or commiserated with me, I obediently waited all those years for God to send me the right man. He just did not send me an American. My sweet husband also believes that. And the Book of Ruth has been a favourite of mine since primary school days!

By the time my family came out of shock and realised I was finally about to kiss Singlehood goodbye they couldn’t have cared if the one I married were from Mars or the Moon!

Seriously, though, none of us thought it would be much of a problem to get my husband a work permit, or green card. At the time of our marriage, his secondment to the Texas company he and other consultants from the UK worked for was being sponsored by that American corporation. He had to go home to the UK every three months to honour the legal commitment of keeping and renewing his visa. But we thought that, as he was now married to me, he could easily apply for immigration and acquire a green card – no problema! [Side note here: For three years, he paid his taxes to the IRS, had a Social Security card, and even got a notice for jury duty. That one scared him ... he was worried he'd be hunted down by a sheriff with a gun if he didn't show up. I somehow convinced him he could get out of it, though. But the sheriff with a gun made him nervous -- cops in the UK aren't armed.]

We were, for all our world travel, embarrassingly wrong in our assumption. After September 11 and Enron, the American government and American companies were less welcoming to highly skilled foreign consultants. My husband’s three-year secondment was not renewed, and that meant that I as the American would need to sponsor him.

At the same time his secondment ended, I had surgery – two bone transplants – for the osteonecrosis in my knee, and so for two months was not allowed to stand, sit, or walk without assistance. We diligently filled out the six-page INS application for immigration. But much to our dismay, every page was about how I would be able to financially support my husband. I had retired from teaching a few years back. In fact, that event, with God’s guidance, led me to the moment where I met my husband! And the excruciating and debilitating pain of the osteonecrosis kept me from employment. Now, with the surgery, I wasn’t too sure about how to reinvent a new career.

My husband makes much more than I ever could as an educator. And yet, that does not seem to be enough to placate Uncle Sam. No one else in my family was in a position to sponsor my husband for immigration, only me. People at the church we were attending couldn't understand why we would want to leave America. But none of them stood up to the plate to offer any assistance. Not even one gesture in a congregation of 3,000. As we read through the six-page INS application form, we sadly realised that immigration was more about a human being’s commercial contribution to the American Way of life. The culture or character of a person is not the asset that Uncle Sam is looking for.

We met with an immigration attorney, and submitted our application for him to go over. I was feeling terribly inadequate, as my financial history and future would do absolutely nothing to enable us to stay in America. When we told my family this, they didn’t believe us. Anyway, after our attorney looked at our application, and once we had consulted with INS, we were told that it would be 2 to 3 years before our application would even be looked at for processing. The INS and the government system was so backed up and backlogged from trying to sift through all the illegal cases it had to contend with before a legal case could be given the time of day. Totally dysfunctional!

So, my husband and I moved back to England. I applied for permanent residency in the UK. I submitted my passport to the authorities with my application and had not only my passport returned in good condition (not lost, as the INS is prone to do!), but was fully vetted within three months. The immigration application for the UK was only 2-pages in length, and I did not have to be a millionaire to become legally vetted.

I am still learning that no country -- no matter how Western its culture, or democratic its ideals -- is the perfect place to live. Ideals and morals become enmeshed and warped. For those who follow Christ, our allegiance to him can be practised in any country. The US is not alone in its dilemma with illegal immigration. The UK has its own intricate problems with illegal immigrants in a landmass so much smaller than America, and all borders surrounded by water. Now that the EU has expanded its borders, the problem of illegal immigration has the potential to explode here in the UK.

Many in the world think the US, who has just recently been introduced to terror within its own borders, has gone OTT in its airport security and consequent treatment of foreigners since September 11. The colour of one’s passport or skin is highly suspect. Americans keep forgetting that all the flights that performed in the event of September 11 were domestic flights within its own borders. That those who commandeered the flights, fates, and fears of many on that day were allowed to come into the US with open arms through an inept and dysfunctional system is hardly addressed.

So, until the American immigration system addresses its commitment to truly welcoming people into its borders legally, my husband will not be applying for immigration to America anytime soon. He's British, and a patient man.

It saddens me that my contribution seems so insignificantly small, if at all.

Peace WITH Democracy?

2006-04-22T13:15:00.000+01:00

This is a picture of us kids playing a game of baseball on our field in Kandahar, Afghanistan. Who knows, maybe one day we will get the pleasure of watching our kids and grandkids join with some Afghan kids for a rousing game on The Diamond. If I'm not mistaken, that's Elephant Mountain in the background.

Once again, Pamela Constable of the Washington Post Foreign Service, beautifully elucidates the complexities of the ‘Afghans' Uneasy Peace With Democracy’
In Discord Over Convert's Trial, Muslims Say They Identify With Islamic Law First
(click title)

Any other illusive thoughts out there?

ON A POSITIVE NOTE BEFORE YOU READ MS. CONSTABLE’S SALIENT ARTICLE:

Farhad Azad, the young publisher of Afghan Magazine, came to the US as a young lad. He published his first edition in 1997, with the hopes of educating the American public to the beautiful facets of Afghanistan’s literary, music, and artistic culture. For a country where illiteracy is the norm, the poetry and stories of the ages, past and present, are stunning.

The last time I was in contact with Farhad, who at the time was living in the San Francisco Bay area, he mentioned to me that his parents and some of his family lived in Allen, TX.

During the year before we left Dallas for the UK, and well before September 11th, my husband and I became acquainted with a compassionate woman who served as the refugee liaison for the Dallas Central Mosque in Richardson, TX. She was a Baptist Texan who had converted to Islam. She taught me much, and I learned to love, admire, and respect her. She put us in contact with a family of Afghan refugees – a mother, daughter and three sons – who were new to the country. We tried to help them while we were there. Their struggles with our Western culture and social morés were achingly obvious.

I would ask that you would read some of the beautiful articles within the online pages of Farhad’s magazine before you read Ms Constable’s report. Hopefully, it will enable you to connect a bit with the heart and soul of the beauty of the Afghan peoples before you can form any judgements, ill or otherwise good.

I believe that one day, with lots of hope and even more gentle persuasion, the Afghans will have peace with democracy. We just have to learn how to respect their freedom.

We'll have to rethink the hot dogs. Pork is a no-no, and there's nairy a piglet in sight, not even to be smuggled on the Black Market. Perhaps hot chops? Our playing field was inside the 2-square mile compound. I have often wondered if Usama bin Laden used our American compound, deserted in the early '70's, as his base of operations? That is, if the Russians didn't destroy it first.

Let Your Cross be Mine

2006-04-17T00:32:00.000+01:00

Lord, you are my life:
Fill my heart with desire –
Shape my will, Lord, as you design
Place the thorns upon my brow,
Let your Cross become my own.
Place the thorns upon my brow,
Let your Cross become my own.

As you lead me on,
And my soul follows you,
Tune my spirit to sing your song:
To your kingdom I belong –
Lay my life before your throne!
To your kingdom I belong –
Lay my life before your throne!

Lord, you are my life –
Let your Cross be mine.

Murphy the Donkey comes to church

2006-04-13T06:00:00.000+01:00

Murphy the Donkey came to church this Sunday! He is the sweetest chocolate donkey that has ever led a Palm Sunday procession -- in my life, at least. When I first saw Murphy, I was struck with how humble he was. He was calm and peaceful in a crowd of adults, even kids in choir robes and ruffs, all excited about our role in the procession across the green with our African palm crosses and singing, in anticipation of this celebration and story of Jesus’ triumphal entry. His owner led Murphy at a respectable pace, and not much sound came from either of them. Murphy had been groomed to perfection -- his long chocolate coat was so smooth. His hooves had even been polished and were shiny as a mirror! He was totally focused on his task and kept his eyes averted in a bashful, unassuming way.

The study notes in my NIV for Matthew 21.2 reveal the donkey is ‘…an animal symbolic of humility, peace, and Davidic royalty…’ To be honest, I had not noticed the detail the Gospel accounts go into with regards to Jesus’ precise instructions for the kind of animal he wanted to carry him on his final journey into Jerusalem. Jesus had specified to his disciples that they acquire a young donkey colt, one that had never been yoked or used as a beast of burden. I’ve made several trips to the Grand Canyon, and can these animals pack it going down and back up the canyon trails, with human cargo on their backs! But Jesus did not want an animal that had been broken in. He was paying attention to the prophecies in the Old Testament scriptures, clues that would help his disciples ‘get it’ after he had fulfilled God’s will on the Cross and had arisen from the tomb. A young donkey that had yet to sweat and toil, or become damaged by a yoke, was symbolic of animals led to the altar to be offered for sacrifice. The donkey Jesus wanted would be dignified and gracious in demeanour – like Murphy – a solemn reminder in a jubilant crowd that Jesus was on his way to bear our burdens on the Cross.

As Murphy approached the door to the church, and we all took our places inside, it became silent as Murphy’s owner gently led him down the aisle, stopping a few hoof paces from the altar. I understand that Murphy has had a little practice. On Palm Sunday last year, he did not know what to do when he got to the church door. He planted his hooves and refused to go inside, because he had never been indoors. The congregation waited inside the church, holding their collective breath, but with some coaxing and promises that he would be safe he made his first trip to the altar. This year, he had a bit more confidence and did not hesitate to come in and go down the aisle. In a few weak moments of uncertainty, though, he would lean on his owner’s arm and nuzzle. (I wonder if the owner of the donkey that carried Jesus groomed that animal and polished its hooves as attentively as Murphy’s owner had?) But he made it through the priest’s welcome, and even seemed to understand the blessing! He is a blesséd beast indeed, as his trips to the altar are numerous and only role-playing …

With Murphy, I learn that Jesus’ demeanour throughout the Holy Week was one of humbleness with dignity. His actions do not try to prove his importance as a person, or his station as a religious celebrity. He does not demand any perks with his position. He anticipates the suffering he will endure at the same time he seeks to instruct and minister to his disciples and loved ones. As he puts his affairs in order, his focus on others – be it individuals or a group – is so caring, so amazing!

Well, bedtime for Debzo zoomed past a while ago. Guess that means it is now Maundy Thursday. So, as Maundy Thursday yearns towards Spring's early daylight, I am soon to be reminded of yet another act of humble kindness my Lord performed: washing his followers’ dry, dusty, dirty, and tired feet.

I sure would like to know how to wash and buff Murphy’s hooves to get them so shiny! But there are some wonderful humans in my life that I would like to pedicure first.

Who’s feet would you wash?

Afghans and Insider Movements?

2006-03-24T14:24:00.000Z

For today's post, I refer to R-Liz and her salient comment and query from yesterday's post.

WOW! Thanks for this excellent question – Insider Movements is a terrific topic for on-going discussion, not just one post or a two-line answer to your comment (sorry!). There are several contextual levels with regards to ‘insider movements’. Which one are you referring to? This concept of missiology is quite complex.

Just Googling ‘Insider Movements’ can inundate you with a host of resources. One of the first to come up is a good, recent intro and pretty much gets to the heart of the matter – ‘Evaluating Insider Movements’, C5 (Messianic Muslims)’, St Francis Magazine Nr 4, 2006. Just the footnotes alone are worth their weight in resource material.

Reading through the descriptions of the models of contextualisation as described by John Travis in this article, I have seen elements practiced from each of these models, depending upon the Muslim countries and communities I’ve been in (Pakistan, India, Thailand, Egypt). One could argue that some of these models are also operating in non-Muslim cultures where I have worked and now live. Look at how Christianity as a religion has splintered off in America, for instance with it’s many indigenous forms of denominationalism, which frankly do not have much relevancy in other parts of this great world God created.

As with any missiology method, the proof of the pudding will be in the rate of attrition. What state of affairs have missionaries left ‘their mission’ in when it was time for them to pack up and go back home? How effectively is the mission integrating the Gospel of Christ with those who live and breathe in the culture to which they are born? Sounds so simple, doesn’t it? We can get terrific glimpses of this through the very first models of ‘Insider Movement’ given to us by the Apostles Peter and Paul – their cultural differences offer plenty for us to learn from! Hmmm ... I wonder what they would think of all these paradigms and terminologies?

Sometimes I feel that our American approach to foreign missions has resembled a Marine Commando mission. In our patriotic passions, we have gone OTT to preach our American idealism more than the ideals of Christ. The conversion is incomplete if Americanism is not in evidence. It’s easy to do. Why? Because our American culture has become as much a part of our ‘religious fabric’ as an Afghan’s culture is a part of theirs (i.e., we think we are the only ones who know more than the Brits or other Western nations what freedom is all about.) Reverse the scenario. Have a Moslem from Afghanistan come into your hometown and begin his mission programme on you. How would you react? What parts of this mission programme would you react the most negatively/positively to?

My feeling is that until one has lived in another culture and tasted the bread of those who suffer or survive differently, the homework is incomplete. It helps tremendously for the Christ follower to get to know the people with Christ’s love first, without wearing ‘Christian’ or religion on one's shirtsleeves. Gaining a respect for their history and how it parallels the development of the universality of the Christian church goes hand in hand. The task is a bit presumptuous to decide from afar on some church board or missions committee as to which method would get Christ’s approval. When you are there, amongst the people in their world, Christ will lead you in the way he and the Holy Spirit deem best for the Kingdom.

Presently, my concern is that the international political community – and in particular the American government under the leadership of the Bush administration and stoked by America’s religious right interest groups – is going to try to reconcile religious dilemmas by using Marine Commando tactics, thereby endangering many lives – both Afghan and Allied – in the process. They will undoubtedly, through their rhetoric and reactionary hubris, politicise it all in the name of ‘fighting terrorism’ and by demanding that the ‘universal freedom of religion’ be adhered to – or else! And then when it all goes pear-shaped deem the losses as mere ‘collateral damage’.

A couple of points:

Afghans translate ‘freedom of religion’ as written in the Afghan Constitution (penned eons ago, not this latest UN attempt), as meaning foreigners in Afghanistan are free to practice their religious beliefs, quietly, and out of earshot of any Afghan. So this law exists, then, for the foreigner whose universal ways corrupt the spiritual path of the Afghan.
For the Christian, the unforgivable sin is to renounce faith and belief in God and by extension, the Triumvirate. The Christian is bound by this law (which we see as freedom) as intrinsically as the Afghans are bound by their belief in Allah (God), which they also perceive as freedom.
When Christians decide to turn away from their faith, they can be tolerated by others as backsliders, embraced by their world, and wait awhile before being renounced by God on the Day of Judgement.
When Afghans decide to turn away from their faith, they are immediately renounced by their world and Allah. They are considered dead and any association with them is unclean and corrupt.
When outsiders push the Afghans into a corner, they dig their heels in and fight back.

Ah, so much to discuss! Any other thoughts out there?

(Today's picture is of my father and baby brother, shortly after our arrival to the Kandahar landscape. Courtesy of our family photo album.)

Afghans for Jesus

2006-03-22T18:44:00.000Z

I just want to clarify this report I read today on CNN’s website. The beginning of the report reads as follows:

Western nations outraged Muslims who convert can be put to death. In the days of the Taliban, those promoting Christianity in Afghanistan could be arrested and those converting from Islam could be tortured and publicly executed.

That was supposed to change after U.S.-led forces ousted the oppressive, fundamentalist regime, but the case of 41-year-old Abdul Rahman has many Western nations wondering if Afghanistan is regressing.

This is somewhat misleading. It implies that before the Taliban appeared on the Afghan landscape, it was an accepted practice for Afghans to convert to Christianity. It also arrogantly assumes that the centuries old religious fabric of an entire nation and culture can be wiped out overnight by foreign military forces. I can assure you this has never been the case. While my family lived in Kandahar (today’s Taliban stronghold) during the ‘60’s, converting to Christianity for an Afghan was strictly forbidden. And if you read the history books, the Afghans have never allowed any foreign military force to succeed in overthrowing their way of life. Ever.

Christian foreigners, such as ourselves, were allowed into the country with a stern warning against ‘proselytising’. This meant, of course, that we were never to openly discuss or profess our belief in Christ with Afghans present. One could risk Afghan prison or deportation. As a part of the foreign community, we were allowed to worship in the privacy of our own home. We were fortunate to be able to do this, although it meant our family had to resort to learning how to ‘do church’ in a completely different style that was not exactly orthodox to our traditions.

While in the US, we were a family in church every time the doors were opened. However, in Kandahar we could only worship privately in our home. It took us about six months to adjust to worshipping together as a family, with Mother and I performing some roles that were not considered ‘kosher’ for females in our American church tradition. This will be a topic for another post, though, because today I just want to draw attention to how difficult it is for Afghans to hear about Jesus, and how complex it is for foreign Christians who live there to openly share their faith.

First off, you all know that Friday is ‘the holy day’ of the week for Moslems. Actually, as they pray multiple times every day without fail, every day is considered holy. But Friday is Juma, the special day for attending mosque. Foreigners who work or go to school have this day off in place of Saturday or Sunday, depending on the work they are there to do. So in a way, the fact that any foreigners would skive off work or school on Sunday is an open occasion for the Afghan government to be suspicious and raise its eyebrows at any religious activity other than Islam.

My family would hold our worship service at home, and then afterwards, take a meal for a potluck luncheon with our other Christian friends from the Philippines and Viet Nam, all devout Catholics. We would enter one of their homes quietly, as the circuit priest from Kabul (a day’s drive) would be officiating mass. The circuit priest was always accompanied by a servant, who was placed in this position by the Afghan government to ensure that no other Afghans were present or within earshot of the mass. We kids called this priestly servant ‘The Spy’. As it was the custom for all of us to employ house servants (men only – houseboys, cooks, gardeners), we made sure they had this day off. We heard horror stories. And there was an American family working for an NGO in the community who was deported because of proselytising. We got the message.

Afghans who were then discovered, as now, to have converted to Christianity were horrendously tortured. Limb torture is popular and the preferred, prolonged method. The Afghan authorities would discover a Christian convert. They would hold the convert and throw the most senior member of the family in prison until the convert would either confess or deny their conversion to Christ. While under interrogation, the imprisoned family member, usually the most vulnerable member (like the grandfather or grandmother, aging aunt or uncle) would have a finger, toe, ear, etc., removed each day until the convert recanted. Of course, Afghan prisons are not abundantly stocked with health care services or food and water.

It is very important for Christians in the free world to understand what the inhumane consequences are for boldly flaunting the Christian faith in an Afghan bazaar – the consequences not only to themselves, but to the innocent and highly uneducated Afghans (which make up the majority of the population, even today).

Afghan President Hamid Karzai himself is Sunni, and a Pashtun. The fact that he is in the role of primary leadership in Kabul and the nearby provinces (not Pashtun) means that, in effect, he has been handed a poison chalice. The fact that Afghanistan now has a ‘constitution’ means nothing to most Afghans. Constitutions are concepts from Western democracies, and Afghans (most of whom are not even educated) are more concerned about daily survival than a piece of political paper drawn up by foreigners whose lifestyles go against their principles. Rep Tom Lantos (D), according to the CNN article, wrote a letter to President Karzai which could end up hurting a lot of people. When will our elected officials realise that everyone's idea of 'democracy' is drawn from a different well?

For the American government, with 23,000 troops in place, this incident of Abdul Rahman will become an even more sensitive and thorny issue for President Karzai. The Afghans, for centuries, have never had their religious beliefs forced to conform to more modern societal pressures, Western or other world religions.

As you pray about, read, and keep up with the developments of Abdul Rahman’s dire spiritual dilemma, please remember that this stems from centuries of devout teachings and strict religious practices, and is a largely dominant pattern interwoven into the beautiful Afghan culture. Please pray that our government and others will not cheapen this spiritual battle by politicising on the suffering of Abdul Rahman and his family.

Sadly, the Taliban understands the Afghan culture – it’s tribes, the Shiites, the Sunnis, the entire spiritual psyche – much better than our people or government as a whole ever tried to.

As for all the sudden outrage, why has it taken so long for our ‘Western nations’ to wake up?

(The picture is from our family album, of children who would always greet us on Bazaar day. Aren’t they gorgeous? If any of them have survived the Russians, the Taliban, or the American bombs, they would all be in their 40’s today.)

UPDATE: This insightful article by Pamela Constable in the Washington Post indicates Abdul Rahman may now not be 'tried or executed for the crime of rejecting Islam.' This is wonderful and an answer to many prayers! But we still need to pray for the Western politicians in our midst who still do not get the cultural divide. May God also soften the hearts and minds of the Afghan leaders so that one day soon they will allow the light of Christ to fill the precious lives of those Afghans who seek to follow him.

The stone gathering

2006-03-14T03:20:00.000Z

A group of six Believers, some of us meeting for the first time, gathered together around our small table to prepare for the Eucharist. In the centre of the table, a candle lit our small, sacred space, welcoming us to share in the light of Christ. On one side of the candle lay stones in the shape of a cross -- smooth and roughly textured. On the other side of the candlelight’s warmth was placed a bowl of clear, cool water.

As I contemplated the candle’s flame, I began to reflect on that innermost pain which bore my sins. The heat from the flame burned and as it grew, my heart confronted the transgressions that felt the most unforgivable, the most damning.

The stones, like each of us, were unique – in size, in shape – with subtle hues of different colours. All were conceived in a place of desolation. Like the stones set before us, we owned our own textures, as God chiselled away at each of us on the pathway towards our journey with him.

One by one, we each claimed a stone from the cross on our table. My stone was as misshapen as it was multi-textured. It felt gritty, as if it had just come from the ground. As I stroked and felt its imperfections, I thought, how does one caress the sinner? Tears flowed silently, warmed on my face by the candle’s heat. My eyes, closed to those in this small circle of sanctuary, sought to look inside the depths of my soul. Oh, that the Healer would find me there!

While I could not see, each member in our sacred circle of fellowship reached out to clasp my stone, and take it from me. No longer was it heavy, cumbersome. I in turn grasped their stones to my heart, petitioning the Healer to search out their depths, and carry them to the surface of light. Forgiveness is an act of partnership that renders us weightless, carefree, accepting of his touch, and marvelling at his grace.

We let go each other’s stones by releasing them into the cool, clear water. As I placed my stone into the water, the texture gently changed. All of the edges seemed to soften, and the grit sloughed off. With the washing of each stone, this water, once clean and clear, became cloudy with our diversity of imperfections.

All of us meet at the cross – alone, sometimes with timidity, other times with conviction, raw and exposed. The shape of the cross is defined by a field of stones, which Jesus gathers into the folds of his garment.

And the light from the candle seems to glow with a brightness that allows for a relationship with our Saviour, at once translucent with the joy and knowledge that we can continue the journey with him in flawless abandon.

The Ashing

2006-03-02T18:59:00.000Z

Ashes. Not cricket, not a music group, and not one of my favourite things to think about, usually. They are dirty, smelly, and leave an awful black stain on everything – from the ground where they lay to the clothes I am wearing -- if I am not successful in cleaning them up. And certainly not something I would want to parade around with on my person with pride for others to see – Jesus is pretty specific about that! (Matthew 6.1-18)

But as this newest season of Lent arrives, here are a few thoughts I have on some of the ashes in my life …

Ashes of JOY Ashes can be evidence that joy happened in this place. Like the dust which draws new life, ashes evoke the power of creation as God gives us delight. Some of the pre-ash delights he has blessed me with?
A glowing campfire ...
... to bring warmth in the mountains,
… for Mother to cook fresh-caught rainbow trout,
… to sing songs and hymns by with friends and family,
… to roast marshmallows or S’mores
The flames on any number of birthday candles to celebrate a life;
A cosy fireplace on a snowy or rainy night, or just to read by.

Ashes of POVERTY I remember the images of beautiful Afghan children with huge sad eyes begging me for bahkshish when I was 12 years old. Many of those who came up to me had faces caked in dirt, with residue of ashes in their hair, on their elbows and knees, and on their cracked bare feet. From the open fire many of them slept near on those cold nights in Kandahar. They just wanted to touch my white skin and blonde hair, and feel the clean fabric of the clothes I got to wear every day. I would have given them the world if it could have solved their plight. But they were my first experience with the cold, hard facts of poverty. Such a painful feeling, the first time you feel too overwhelmed to help. Where to start? My allowance came in a chit book. Paper would only help keep them warm at night, and it was just a little bitty square of paper for them to add to the fire. It wouldn’t feed or clothe them, or help them get to have a school.

Poverty can be cruel to children on both sides of the line: those who have not, and those who have much but do not have the power to give all they would like to.

Ashes of GRIEF Watching the ashes of someone I love dearly fly into the wind is bitter in that they will no longer be here on Earth for me to hug. In faith, I believe – I must! – the open arms of our Lord will be on the other side of the clouds to capture their spirit and hold them close when I no longer can.

Ashes of REPENTANCE These ashes might be the hardest ones to accept. They are highly personal, and a symbolic reminder to me of the wrongs I have committed. They are not easy to admit, especially in the company of Christian brothers and sisters. But they are placed compassionately on my forehead. The compassion and love I receive within this safe sanctuary of fellowship encourage me to reflect upon God’s inner workings inside my heart. Then, before I step out into a world that offers no sanctuary and little understanding, I silently remove this black residue of a reminder to myself.

Ashes of RENEWAL and REJOICING! Repentance allows that most ultimate of God’s gift – grace! What a freeing feeling I get when I know He pours it over me, again and again.

I like what Father John Beddingfield writes (Angelus On Line Newsletter, St Mary the Virgin Episcopal Church, New York):
While ashes may signify and remind, they also invite. They invite us to repentance. They invite us to turn again to God and to receive new life. Isaiah brings glad tidings to the people of Israel, “to give them a garland instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning.” Ashes are not the end but are just the beginning. They begin a season that moves us through silence and longing into a season of joy and resurrection.

Blessings as you prepare for the joy to come!

A spot of ultimate rest ...

2006-02-22T22:10:00.000Z

Goodness me! I see I haven’t posted here since 22 November – before Thanksgiving!! Other things in life have obviously taken priority. So much has happened since my last post. Priest Idol did finish out, and I will post my review on the final episode. Eventually. Until then, suffice it to say, God was definitely in charge of the producers, whether they wanted Him to be or not.

The year ended with much to look back at and reflect upon for this new start at 2006. Does this ever happen to you? Certain projects started and issues cropping up in life would be great if they could literally begin and end within the cycle of our 12-month year, but it just does not always work that way. God’s time is so relative to the watches we wear on our wrists. Sometimes I want the hour to chime before He is ready for it to begin sounding. But He holds the plans, and drives the vehicle, and lately I have been willing to just sit in the back seat and watch the scenery of the journey go by. You know how frustrating, though, it can be as a passenger in the back seat? It’s difficult to see the road and scenery ahead, because the front seats and the headrests muck up the view! So I’ve had to resign myself to watching what passes by on the sides. There have been some messes along the way, and I am so weary. And yet there have been some awesome landscapes we have driven by. God knows my weariness, though, patiently stopping along the way at each of these tremendous settings. At these spots of ultimate rest, He asks me to pause and reflect.

One spot was, of all places, at -- get ready -- Butlins in Bognor Regis! It was the end of January and the beginning of February, and every day was bitterly cold, mostly rainy. Who wants to go to Butlins at Bognor to begin with? And then to have to experience the place during off-season?? I know, I’m thinking not exactly a ‘spot of ultimate rest’. We went because that is where our diocese booked our conference, ‘Proclaiming the Faith Afresh’. Can you just imagine the scope for worship in Reds? I mean, talk about taking religion outside the box! But it worked. The Taizé worship times were conducted in Pinewood Studio, with a life-size, 3-D model of Frankenstein’s Monster raising his hands permanently towards to leader. And yet, God was there.

The speakers were all phenomenal: Elaine Storkey, Gavin Ashenden, Paul Bayes. Daily Bible study with David Coffey made me look at Paul’s sermon in Athens (Acts 17.16-34) from a totally different perspective. The fellowship with good friends (and a bunch of new ones!) was full of warmth, which more than made up for the cold and stiff Bognor sea breezes. We had fabulous dialogues, and workshops designed to let us explore the picture of today’s church and the directions in which God, not us, might be leading. The terms -- ‘emergent’ and ‘missional’ -- and the concepts they evoke are new to a lot of people within the Rochester Diocese. But we are a wonderfully diverse bunch and will move forward. We are impressed by the work Paul Meier is doing at Stocks Green Church – what a heart he has! John and I each belonged to our own fantastic cell groups – we need to get in touch with these encouraging new friends in Christ! The beauty of being involved in a diocesan conference is that all the friends you see and the new ones you make are not so far for a visit after the conference is over. This conference the Lord led us to was, indeed, a spot of ultimate spiritual rest! And cloaked, a bit, surely, in His humour: He sure can pick the venues!!

A second spot of ultimate rest, unfortunately, has been at home in bed for a week now. I finally went to the doctor yesterday, and got some serious meds. I want to get well really quickly, before the French blow their sick birds our way. Mayor Ken has already asked us to stop feeding the pigeons in Trafalgar Square. Well, that’s like asking someone in West Texas to stop stirring up all the dust! But this time has helped me to reflect on our imminent move further into Kent. And also try to make sense out of the English system of buying and selling property. I cannot, and may never, be able to figure this one out, but God is in the details. And at least the scenery while house-hunting is gorgeous! Lots of swans, lots of pigeons …

The third spot of ultimate rest has been getting to be a part of a dear friend’s Bible study group, being in her home every fortnight. There are the sweetest ladies to get to know, and the spiritual insights coupled with my friend’s teaching from the Word has been so uplifting. I so wish more gals would come and be blessed (and bless us!).

But we could not meet this week, because several of us have become homing pigeons for this cruddy virus, sinus infections – or whatever it is likes us so much we can’t get it to leave!

As God is in the driver’s seat, my rest will be a while longer, because He’s at the wheel. And I won’t have to fight those dodgy roundabouts life can throw at us! Know what I mean?

Priest Idol

2005-11-22T22:44:00.000Z

That’s right.

A Wheaton grad ends up on British reality TV. His mission: Save a dying church.
In his interview with Christianity Today, Father James McCaskill, an American, makes the following observation:

'The Church of England has done a really good job of compromising itself, lowering the standard to where people are, rather than calling the people to something greater in the church.’

Is the Church of England the only one guilty of this?

Well, on this week's installment, the second in this three-part spiritual reality series, some of the more memorable moments:

The archdeacon persuades Fr McCaskill to take voice tuition from an old friend of his. Her way to get him to learn to project his singing voice to the masses?
Do you have a dog? Well, pretend your dog is about to run out to greet a speeding bus. What sound would you use to keep your dog from doing that?

I always wondered if Jesus had a pet dog when he was a kid, or even as an adult.

The two hip non-Christian guys from the marketing and PR firm hired by the Diocese to spruce up the church’s image attend church, both for the first time in about 30 years. They check out Fr McCaskill’s church in Lundwood, and can’t understand the liturgy or a word of anything -- the prayer or Fr James’s American accent.

So, the next week they skip over to another town about 20-minutes away, with a completely different demographic to Lundwood (which the guys in the editing room don’t manage to include in this week's episode) that’s pulling the people out of the pubs, bingo halls, and gentlemen’s clubs and packing them in! It’s Church Café ... Anglican style. The female vicar serves up great buns with her sermons. They like it.

The archdeacon, Fr McCaskill, and the churchwarden travel to the posh and very urban marketing firm for the unveiling of the PR campaign. Today, they learn their mission, should they choose to accept it, has been re-branded ...

CHURCH LItE

Seriously. Oh, and the ‘t’ in ‘Lite’ is fashioned as the cross.

Pretty original concept, I guess, for non-Believers.

My first thought mirrored that of a parishioner who thought it reminded her of an American tub of margarine. My second thought was that my husband calls watered-down worship services ‘JC Lite’. Hmmm … is there a subliminal message beginning to develop here?

The baptismal font has to go! After donkey’s years placed in the same spot in the church, it has to be moved to make the new glass-topped tea table more accessible for the tea and biscuit fellowship after the services.

Will the church split now?

Fr McCaskill himself finally paints over the ‘F’ word painted by local yobs a few years back on the outside of the church hall which used to read ‘F--- God’. The rainbow, and God, remain.
The interior designer from the marketing firm and the archdeacon go over the textures of textiles being considered for selection to frame the church’s new ‘Reflection Section’. She prefers the voile. But some of the older parishioners can see a boudoir and feel the voile is highly inappropriate. Oh dear.
Most of the 6,000 in the parish of Lunwood are typical of today's British: they only value church-going for hatching, matching, and dispatching, and the parties after. A man may not support his local church most of his life, but by God (or without) he ought to be buried there! So it is encouraging when the congregation goes from 8 attending members on a Sunday morning to 15 in just a few months. Progress. Plus Fr James enlists a young lad to serve as acolyte. When the filming crew ask the pre-teen about his new life at the church, he says he knows his friends make fun of him, but it’s okay because he loves Jesus and God. He knows God will take care of him. And when he’s a teenager in a year’s time, he still sees himself a part of the church. Now that’s real progress!
The archdeacon tries to do a Trinny and Suzanne on Fr James. When he holds out one flamboyant and flowing vestment for consideration, Fr James demurs and says it reminds him of a ‘mu-mu’. When the archdeacon does not quite understand, the lithe Fr James explains that a mu-mu is what obese people wear to hide their size in. So then the archdeacon turns to hats. He places a black wide-brimmed clergy hat on Fr James’s head, and somehow, the mu-mu seems not quite so bad. In the end, however, both are rejected. Ah, the English and their sense of pomp and pageantry … whew!
One of the sadder parts of this whole filming project is the way the former vicar of Lundwood views the new vicar and the plans to revive the church. There does not seem to be any spirit of Christ's love or encouragement genuinely extended to Fr McCaskill. Instead, the former vicar seems to be waiting for Fr James to hang himself. The British hate success.

Perhaps that’s just one of the ways the filming crew and editors are trying to manipulate the situation. Producers of these reality shows love to conjure up an antagonist.

As if disgruntled parishioners aren’t enough.

Stay tuned. Part III, the final chapter, next week.

Mystery Worshipper ... Who, ME???

2005-10-04T20:26:00.000+01:00

Have you ever been a Mystery Worshipper? I must confess, I have been, and probably still am to a certain degree. And it makes me wonder if, just possibly, God in all His mysterious ways could be one, too.

I came, or rather stumbled, across this concept by somehow finding Ship of Fools: The Magazine of Christian Unrest. At first glance, I embarrassed myself (it can happen), because I thought I was accessing something that might be just a tad bit blasphemous. But then, I cooled my American heels when I realised this webzine is loaded with British humour. We Christians can and need to take a good jab at ourselves and lighten up! I admit this site has given me some great belly laughs.

One might describe Ship of Fools as a sort of ‘consumer’s group’ for Christians or Seekers. And this is where the Mystery Worshipper takes a grand bow. As the state of Christianity keeps getting reported as being in serious decline in this country, bold Christian believers in the UK have taken on the task of searching out different churches of the Christian faith to see what’s on offer for those seeking a fellowship or a place to grow spiritually. Their recommends are pretty great for newcomers to this Island who feel somewhat perplexed with where to start looking for a Biblical and wonderful church to worship. And extremely helpful for American Christians who come here and cannot understand why their brand of American denominationalism (or the non- variety¸ if we must get picky) just can’t be found.

For variety, here are a few of my favourite Mystery Worshipper picks:

All Saints, Blackheath
Southwark Cathedral, London
The Redeemed Christian Church of God, Tooting (in case you get lost, this one meets above Snappy Snaps, The Photo Specialists)
Equippers, London School of Economics
The Drive Methodist Church, Ilford, London

A couple of the Mystery Worshippers even received comments back from some of the members of the churches they visited. All very insightful and thought-provoking stuff.

Another funny feature of Ship of Fools is the section ‘Gadgets for God’. Oh, that Wesley-Owen Bible stores might become so inspired!

As you choose to read a few samplings, I’ll leave you with the most popular joke voted on by Christians as part of Ship of Fools The Laugh Judgement, their recent ‘search for the funniest and most offensive religious jokes of all eternity’. 65% of Christian respondents submitted the following joke, written by comedian Emo Philips :

I was walking across a bridge one day, and I saw a man standing on the edge, about to jump. I ran over and said: "Stop. Don't do it."

"Why shouldn't I?" he asked.

"Well, there's so much to live for!"

"Like what?"

"Are you religious?"

He said: "Yes."

I said: "Me too. Are you Christian or Buddhist?"

"Christian."

"Me too. Are you Catholic or Protestant?"

"Protestant."

"Me too. Are you Episcopalian or Baptist?"

"Baptist."

"Wow. Me too. Are you Baptist Church of God or Baptist Church of the Lord?"

"Baptist Church of God."

"Me too. Are you original Baptist Church of God, or are you Reformed Baptist Church of God?"

"Reformed Baptist Church of God."

"Me too. Are you Reformed Baptist Church of God, Reformation of 1879, or Reformed Baptist Church of God, Reformation of 1915?"

He said: "Reformed Baptist Church of God, Reformation of 1915."

I said: "Die, heretic scum," and pushed him off.

So lighten up ... I would love to hear about some of the places you have discovered God in as a Mystery Worshipper!

And may you be a blessing to the next church you might happen to visit …

The 100-Minute Bible

2005-09-28T18:48:00.000+01:00

One speed reader on BBC's Radio 4 Today read it in just over 5 minutes. The presenters on Today were so impressed that they challenged listeners to submit by E-mail their own 10-second version of the Bible. Here's my favourite, by James Barabas:

The lights came on,

we could see the rules,

but being lost,

we behaved as fools;

He came to save us,

died on the cross,

will we learn,

or are we lost?

I demurred.

I believe in making things accessible, but when it seems that all we are about is taking the things that really count in life and dumbing them down, or aiming for the lowest common denominator, we are losing our senses. Actually, we cut out the time to use our senses. Maybe eventually we'll forget what those are even all about.

According to the article in The Times, some reasons given for coming up with the 100-Minute Bible in the first place are its:

Design -- for the era when speed of consumption counts for everything and few have time to spend an hour in church on Sundays any more;
Written for people who want to know more about Christianity but who are unlikely ever to find time to read it in its entirety;
Been written in a style to encourage readers to keep turning the pages, but without resorting to literary gimmicks.

I don't know about you, but with Reason No. 2, I want to know this: If people genuinely want to know more about Christianity, who told them in the first place that they would find out about it in the Bible, as it's never mentioned there? They will waste their precious time searching for the word 'Christian'. They will not be able to get the measure of the rich characters found within. And they will certainly not be introduced to or discover the true and loving nature of Christ, who's name they read and hear un-lovingly intoned more in secular literature, movies, and on TV shows. And if they are 'unlikely ever to find time to read it in its entirety', the Cliff Notes approach will not be too enlightening or even inspiring. All this from the Land of Shakespeare, Wycliffe, and King James.

As for Reason No. 3, Reason No. 2 somewhat cancels out any motivation for readers to want to keep turning the pages. And gimmicks??? What did authors like Moses and Apostle Paul know about modern-day Western marketing gimmicks? Those dear, nameless souls they employed as scribes had enough details to worry over besides the latest publishing trends. Like, How much longer can I write before this candle burns out?, or, Who did they say dried this animal skin?

Is it any wonder my belief sounds so wishy-washy to non-Christians? How and when did people become so averse to reading the Bible? And how can it remain the 'best-seller' it has always been?

I've just been settling in to reading the Bible on my Palm Pilot. Now that has been a treat and come in handy at odd and not-so-odd moments! Not only can I access it and all the great study features if I'm stuck on a delayed train journey, held up waiting for appointments, or trapped in a dire, dull meeting, but I know it's there 'in its entirety' at my fingertips. The Bible on Palm Pilot is not used a lot over here, though, and John and I both probably appear to be playing small computer games in church to our fellow church-goers. I have had to learn to tap quietly. If they only knew!

If you're in a hurry to acquire this newest literary testament, click here and you can order your very own copy hot off the press!

What are your thoughts?

And how would your 10-second summary of the Bible read?

The wideness in God's mercy

2005-09-03T12:34:00.000+01:00

There’s a wideness in God’s mercy
Like the wideness of the sea;
There’s a kindness in his justice
Which is more than liberty.

There is no place where earth’s sorrows
Are more felt than up in heaven;
There is no place where earth’s failings
Have such kindly judgement given.

For the love of God is broader
Than the measures of man’s mind;
And the heart of the Eternal
Is most wonderfully kind.

But we make his love too narrow
By false limits of our own;
And we magnify his strictness
With a zeal he will not own.

There is plentiful redemption
In the blood that has been shed;
There is joy for all the members
In the sorrows of the Head.

There is grace enough for thousands
Of new worlds as great as this;
There is room for fresh creations
In that upper home of bliss.

If our love were but more simple,
We would take him at his word;
And our lives would be all gladness
In the joy of Christ our Lord.

God just keeps blessing me richly with English hymns and choral works that I was not familiar with in the United States. Some of these new gems have made me cry upon a first hearing, as the combination of their music and text intermingle to highlight Biblical truths in a fresh way for me.

The words to this lovely hymn were penned well over a century and a half ago by FW Faber (1814-1863). I am always amazed at how the messages conveyed in hymns written long ago can resonate with the times and feelings of today. Some of the musical styles may change, but God uses both – music and text – to reach out and touch our souls.

I heard this hymn for the first time on Thursday, as our choir was preparing it for this Sunday’s Eucharist. My heart was very heavy just prior to this rehearsal, as news and pictures of hurricane Katrina’s aftermath in the Gulf States of America was being broadcast. In light of all the tragedy that has transpired – from the many degrees of human suffering to all the behaviours of human nature in crisis, both positive and negative – this hymn just washed over me like the most wonderful soft, downy comfort blanket.

(The hymn is to the tune of ‘Corvedale’, harmonised by Maurice Bevan (1921-). If some of my American friends would like to learn this, let me know, and I will make sure to send it to you!)

Call My Name

2005-09-02T02:58:00.000+01:00

When the raging storms of life roll in,
And darkness clouds my path;
Lost, alone, on a road of fear –
Empty silence holds my tears.
Who will hear my cries?
Who can read my heart?
Who will lead me home
And be my Guide?

Call – and I will answer you.
Just call my name
And let the heavens ring.
For I will send you Comfort,

I will lend my Strength,
I will Counsel you,
And bring you Peace.

When Time has closed the doors of hope,
And the Way is marked with pain;
Cold, cold shadows linger on,
And the hands of love seem turned away:
Who will hear your cries?
Who can read your heart?
Who will lead you home
And be your Guide?

Call – and I will answer you.
Just call my name
And let the heavens ring.
For I will send you Comfort,
I will lend my Strength,
I will Counsel you,
And bring you Peace.

(Jeremiah 33.3)

Just out of genuine curiosity ...

2005-08-21T23:02:00.000+01:00

Which came first?

Your faith ...

OR

Your music ...

Remembering WHO IS in control!

2005-08-01T18:09:00.000+01:00

So do not fear, for I am with you;
do not be dismayed, for I am your God.
I will strengthen you and help you;
I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.
-- Isaiah 41.10

Just wanted to convey my thanks and appreciation to all of you who have called and written words of encouragement, and have been praying about the situation here in London.

In light of all the other daily devastations that take place globally, we have so much to be thankful for. We all wish we could help those suffering in India and Niger. On the Afghan and Iraqi fronts, there are people -- men, women, and children -- who battle daily to survive in a hostile world that was always the norm even before the Russians or the Taliban or other despots came to power. I know for Afghans in Kandahar where I once lived, life has not improved much in the past four years. And whilst the Muslim sects in Iraq are vying each other for power, let us not forget that many Iraqi Christians still reside amongst them all.

For those American and British soldiers who are trying to keep peace and hunt terrorists at the same time, the world must at times seem a very confusing circle. Just wars ordain sacrifice. I'm not too sure this has been fully understood since our world leaders raised the battle cry. And it seems there is never enough time for those who grieve their losses to mourn before it is time to mourn for another.

So then, how do we embrace what God is telling us through Isaiah 41.10?

This past Sunday, I was struck by our Gospel lesson from Matthew 14.13-21. This is the passage where we learn that Jesus feeds 5,000 men -- besides all the women and children -- with only five loaves of bread and two fish. This becomes such a miraculous feast that his disciples collect twelve baskets of left-overs at the end of the day. This miracle was borne out of compassionate spontaneity.

You see, what made such an impression on me was that just before Jesus found out about this massive crowd of seekers, he had withdrawn '... by boat privately to a solitary place'. To mourn. He had just learned that his cousin, John the Baptist, had been beheaded on a whim. In today's comfy and tidy little Western world we have met news of beheadings with revulsion. And emotions emanating from most of us have probably included rage. Was rage a part of Jesus' emotions on that very long day? I wonder. He had to get away by himself on a boat, and find a special place where he could take in what had happened to his dynamic cousin. Now the scriptures do not tell us too much about the relationship between Jesus and John, but it seems that they must have been extremely close. Their mothers were very devoted to each other from the beginning. John was the one who rejoiced to baptise Jesus. Jesus fulfilled John's purpose in life. I think spiritually they must have been really close mates. (This is definitely on my 'Things to check out when I get to Heaven' list!) Jesus, as perfect as he was, must have been totally devastated!

But Jesus, at the urging of his disciples, saw the crowds that had gathered and felt compassion. He did not seem irritated. Amazing. I don't know, but there are times when those disciples seem like a real officious pain in the neck, and they would definitely have tested my patience! Instead Jesus turned his attention away from his own grieving for John. Whatever sadness or rage he must have felt, he let it go. Nor did he require any of the crowd of strangers to go through a security check-point before he ministered to them.

God's promise in Isaiah 41.10 allowed a grieving Jesus to heal and feed over 5,000 total strangers. Few of us today have all the practical answers for taking care of our little global community. We don't know how to make it totally safe and secure, or full of physical nourishment for all. But we should -- after all the many years some of us have spent studying the Bible and going to church -- at least know how to pick up Christ's mantle of compassion.

Through terror and tragedy, our world is coming together more closely. Whether our neighbourhood is homogenous, or decidedly multi-ethnic, we can no longer ignore the array of spice in the cuisine. Being self-righteously critical of other economies, governments, cultures and languages will not further the cause of Christ. But love and a genuine understanding for each other will. These two principles, on the surface, may seem too simple a solution, and idealistic at best. But the deeper implications of Christ's example in the midst of his mourning time for John illustrate how abundantly effective these principles can be.

When we extend Christ's mantle of compassion to those who are caught in a perpetual cycle of mourning, no matter what country or culture they may be from, perhaps suffering on a global scale will begin to fade away.

God will uphold us all with his righteous right hand!

It’s a Malteser Day!

2005-07-21T19:18:00.000+01:00

I didn’t know why I got them yesterday at the grocery store, but the Naughty Chocolate Force led me to stock up on Maltesers. The time was about Noon-thirty, and I had yet to eat lunch. You know what your mother always warns: ‘Never do grocery shopping on an empty stomach.’ So I had been fasting. (?)

First, thank you to all who have been concerned and sent us your prayers. We are all safe and sound from today’s latest ‘incidents’. John did have to go into the office today. He has been going into the city since 11th June, and everything has been ‘back to business as usual’. But he has been going in via Blackfriars, which does not experience as heavy a traffic flow as other stations we normally use (Victoria, Charing Cross, London Bridge, Waterloo). He tried to find a station he could use that would make his walk to the office closer, so he wouldn’t be tempted to then connect by bus or the Tube.

He decided to come home early today, before the commuter crunch piled up with delays. So I collected him at our station shortly after 5pm. All the kids are safe as well and we are very thankful. At this evening’s press conference with Mayor Ken, he and the police commissioner, Sir Ian Blair pronounced that ‘London is back to business.’ We have been reminded by several public figures today that London and Londoners have endured and survived over 300 terrorist bombs throughout the three decades since the Troubles in the 1970’s. And we will continue to do so today. Our police and response services have been quick on the draw.

So about those Maltesers. It’s all beginning to make sense. I don’t usually eat these little chocolate malted marbles (click on today's title link to view hilarious advert). They are much like ‘Whoppers’ in the US, and made by Mars. But over here, the Brits describe the crunchy middle bit as: 'Honeycombed malt biscuit balls coated in milk chocolate (more biscuit than chocolate) hence they're "The lighter way to enjoy chocolate" ... They're a favorite with those watching their waistline.'

Low odds that count

2005-07-14T11:29:00.000+01:00

Sorry if my thoughts sound so disjointed today. It's not easy to figure out this world.

A praise Just learned last night that our friend's daughter regained consciousness yesterday. She had to have a leg amputated below the knee. Please continue to keep this family in your prayers. For privacy and respect I will not reveal their names, but God will know whom we are praying for. She is beginning to heal, but there is a long road ahead. Her injury will be a constant reminder.

In Anne Applebaum's column yesterday in the Washington Post, 'The Low-Odds Factor' (click on today's title link above), she writes that with 7-million people living in London, and all the millions that commute into London every day, that to have only something like 50 people die is a really low odd. As much as it pains me, I understand her rather choleric reasoning.

But who would have thought that out of all those millions, John and I would have somehow come to know, indirectly, two of the victims? We did not know Jamie Gordon, but some good friends at church had asked for prayers on Sunday, and are now grieving his loss. Our friend from the Diocese is someone we have met in person, and spoken with over the phone several times. She served us, as she serves so many others on a daily basis. Now her child is in hospital, critically injured, faced with a long rehab. Even if we are not in her family’s inner circle, our Christian family can hold them up in prayer for the long journey ahead.

I would really like to take a meal to her family, but I am learning that this is not something the British Christians are accustomed to. It makes them feel highly uncomfortable, and weighted down by the inconvenient prospect of having to return in kind some day. I’ve already been scolded for bringing too much food to what we American Christians fondly call ‘pot lucks’. So I am stepping out in faith that prayers to God are more powerful than comfort food (and they are, I just know it!).

By now, the authorities have found at least three of the London bombers, and are on the trail of the fourth and a fifth. Our large Muslim communities are shocked, saddened, and indeed outraged, that the bombers grew up in their midst. Several innocent Muslims were also victims. None of this makes any kind of sense. Some serious soul-searching is going on at Parliament as well as within our churches and communities. It is time to brush away the damage 'religion' has played in these events and get to the heart of the matter

How are we raising our kids in today's society? Some of us try to apply Christian principals to the parenting skills. But even kids raised in Christian churches can grow up to be holy terrors. How does this happen? Who torched those churches in Tennessee last week? Which neighbourhood kids stole and torched the latest car on our nearby green last week?

I get upset when I see journalists write about ‘Muslim terrorists’. When a Christian commits a heinous crime or act of terror, do the journalists write ‘Christian terrorists’? When we lived in Kandahar, Afghanistan, we noted that the Afghan families had a stronger base for morality than some of the American families in our USAID compound or especially the Peace Corps workers who lived amongst the Afghan communities in Kandahar. It could make for delicate diplomacy, because our Afghan servants had eyes and ears to report what went on behind the closed doors of the American family homes. The Peace Corps members all drank, smoked, and slept around, and would come back to town highly inebriated after a wild party at the USAID compound. Why would the Afghan Muslims even want to model their behaviours after what they witnessed from the Americans? They thought we were stupid.

Our Muslim friends here in the UK (and US!) apply their Islamic principles to their children, and those principles are just as righteous to them as ours are to us. Have you noticed how your Muslim friends discipline and teach their children? They try just as hard to shield them from the sexual undertones and bad language of TV shows and movies as the rest of us. And yet their children can torch society as abhorrently as ours. Who are we to compare the scales of tragedy? For one family to have to mourn the loss of a mother, father, sister, brother, etc, is one too many. It only takes attending one funeral to know how de-sensitised we have become. Imagine having to attend multiple funerals in one day, as many are doing in our world.

Terror comes in many forms and today it seems to have spiralled out of control. That an angry young suicidal man can plough into a bunch of little kids and, as happened in Baghdad yesterday, kill them all is an outrage, not another news item.

It's time we all got a grip and figured out how to repair the damage that started it all in the first place. Where's the dialogue? And where's the leadership and action? We Americans might have got a clue when the tragedy at Columbine in Colorado happened. But complacency set in after the celebrity died down. A lot of bad stuff with messed up kids has happened since then. And after about three years of peace, there was a big bad riot in Belfast yesterday. Sadly, churches and other massive places of worship have not been the answers.

I will try to become more cheery before I write again. Maybe another day. Sorry.

Difficulties of the aftermath

2005-07-12T15:27:00.000+01:00

Jamie Gordon has just been identified as one of those who died in the the T avistock Square bus bomb. (Please click today's title for the BBC's account of Jamie.)

Please keep his family, fiancée, and friends in your prayers.

The forensics teams and those workers who are labouring to recover and identify victims also need our continued prayers. They have been battling tremendous heat down in the tunnels, especially in the Picadilly Line Tube, not to mention gruesome work conditions. Families who are waiting to learn the fate of their missing loved ones have come from all over to stand vigil. Several families have flown into London from other countries.

Many of these families want to honour their religious beliefs that dictate immediate burial after death. But in atrocities such as this, it is not something so easily honoured, as authorities must be extremely careful and sure the victims are identified correctly.

British authorities, experienced in handling these delicate matters, learned the hard way with the TWA plane explosion over Lockerbie. One of the victim's families, in the throes of grief and anxious to bury their daughter, made a quick visual identification. The body was sent to the US, only to sadly reveal that the wrong victim had been sent home for burial. The situation and ensuing mistake made a sad event worse for more people than intended.

Sometimes after a tragedy has happened, the rest of us can carry on with our lives and try to 'get back to normal'. We forget about all those teams of caring people who have to witness and work on the accident site or crime scene for a time longer than the media is willing to report on. They are under tremendous pressure from many sides, trying to put all the vital pieces of information together so that those who are grieving can eventually carry on with the mourning process. The circumstances of their work are not as comfortable as our living rooms or dining tables, which most of us return to hours after a heinous incident has occurred.

Their work continues until the aftermath comes to a full stop.

And as for mourning, it never really comes to a full stop.

Red poppies descending!

2005-07-10T11:34:00.000+01:00

The sight of one million red poppies tumbling down from a Lancaster Bomber into the sunny blue sky was a thrilling and emotional moment! Their target was to land and bless a crowd of at least 250,000 attending the VE Day celebrations located on the Mall at Buckingham Palace this afternoon. And bless they did!

The VE Day occasion (please click on title for link), planned for some time, commemorated Britain’s victory in World War II 60 years ago. The Queen made a grand and heartfelt speech in honour of all the veterans and survivors. Veterans were there to pay tribute to fallen heroes. Flags were paraded with grand ceremony, including the flag of the United States.

The Horse Guards headed up all the usual pomp and circumstance: the Royals were on parade; a British actor fondly noted for his portrayal of Winston Churchill intoned the leader’s wisdom and wit; a big band production, complete with male and female dancers in WWII uniforms re-enacted the dance scenes of that era. The Brits are famous for whingeing that the American soldiers who came to help out in the war effort were ‘... over-paid, over-sexed, and over here!’, but there’s no doubt about the soft spot in their hearts for the Yanks who served. That mutual admiration was on display today, sixty years later.

VJ/VE Day was a timely reminder this year. Traditionally it highlights remembrance and thanksgiving. In light of the sad events of last Thursday, it serves as an aide memoir to the newer generations who are faced with living in today’s world. If we can bear one another up through the tragedies inflicted by terror, and re-write humanity with strokes of compassion and understanding, then we will carry on the heritage of freedom men like my father invested in and fought for.

As families begin to mourn, or help injured loved ones heal, may that visage of red poppies descending in today’s sunny blue skies be a blessing to carry them forward for a very long time.
__________________________________________________
Some prayer requests for God’s abiding love, strength, and presence:

The family of Jamie Gordon, aged 30. Jamie is a work colleague of some friends from our church. He is one of those listed as missing and unaccounted for from Thursday’s bombings.
The daughter of a dear sister in our Rochester Diocese is one of those still critically wounded in hospital. She is in her early twenties.
John must go for his annual company-sponsored health appointment tomorrow afternoon. He has decided to walk from Charing Cross. I told him that after the long walk, he should have a terrific heart rate to record. He replied his heart rate would be even higher if he took a bus or the Tube. Praise God for walking!

When love slips away

2005-07-09T23:40:00.000+01:00

A couple of disjointed thoughts about the bombs …

Why did the terrorists, if they were Islamic, decide to include the Aldgate station, which is so highly populated by the Muslim community? Was this community hit because through generations its British Muslim citizens have embraced Western customs?
Why do Muslim mothers in our community have to feel afraid to leave their homes to go pick up their children from school, or even to go to the grocery store? They prefer to honour their religious beliefs by wearing their hijabs when out in public. But they feel marked when they do and suffer glaring stares. So sad.
Why did the terrorists only use five pounds of explosives at each site? Was this supposed to just be a dry run?
This is the first time ever the Queen has addressed a tragedy and made a public speech as quickly after the event.

Londoners are used to bombs due to:

The Blitz in 1940 and 1941. That horrible period is still widely remembered by many here. Those who lived through it, and share their testimonies reference it quite a bit at church events or during times of worship. My American government would not come to the aid of the British until after the heavy loss of American lives at Pearl Harbour.
Kent, the Garden of England, which is now my home, was the site of the Battle of Britain, also still vivid in many memories.
Unexploded ordinance from the Blitz is still being uncovered. Shortly after moving here, a bomb was unearthed just about a mile away from our house and the bomb squad was called out. Over 60 years since WWII ended. Exciting for me, as nothing like that ever happened in any of the neighbourhoods where I grew up in the States. But just ‘ho-hum’ here … ‘Now how about that cuppa tea, luv?’
The years of The Troubles and the terrorism of the IRA, which, embarrassingly enough for me, as some of my British and Irish friends have pointed out, were aided by Americans sympathetic to a cause not quite understood.
Tragic losses of life have occurred in major cities in the UK as late as November 2001, due to explosives attributed to and claimed by the IRA.

My husband remembers a day in the late-’90’s when he was working in Central London and heard a bomb blast across the street from his office. The bomb squad had been called in to deactivate a bomb placed in the MacDonald’s on Oxford Street by the IRA. The store was evacuated but the bomb specialist was killed while trying to diffuse the ordinance.

I went to choir rehearsal on Friday night, and not one mention of the tragedy was made. No one is going to let the terrorists take control.

That being said, not too many fancy using the Tube at present or anytime soon. We also feel a little nervous on the buses. Our transport system is such a huge way of life here:

car parks are extremely rare here;
It can take 1-and-a-half to 2 hours to just drive the 15 miles into Central London because of traffic congestion;
Petrol is now equivalent to $7-$8 per gallon, and the transport is a much less costly way to get around. But my American friends have difficulty relating to that, because now they are all whingeing about having to pay a paltry $2.20 at the pump. And they all drive huge gas-guzzling monsters because they get a false sense of security driving cars classed as trucks.

We all know how vulnerable our transport system is. John has to go into Charing Cross Monday, but he’s decided to walk the distance from there to his appointment rather than take the Tube.
______________________________________

On another sad note, I read today where a string of churches in Smyrna, Tennessee in the US were torched and set afire late this week. Although different denominations were represented, all the churches were predominantly Black congregations. The Church of Christ barely has a wall standing. The police chief of the town was not too quick to finger the atrocity as a ‘hate crime’. What an insult … what else could it be? Lightning?

There are terrorists everywhere. They do not necessarily come from other countries but operate from within our own borders. When are we going to get that? They hide behind religion, nationality, and skin colour. They are not all Muslim, Jew, Catholic or Protestant, Christian, Sikh, Hindu, Trendy-Religious-Belief-of-the-Year, etc. They thrive on fear and share hatred as their common cause.

Somehow, our society has found a way to breed this hatred. No one wants to address this, because it's all too complicated, and that makes us all a bit guilty. I wish I knew the answers.

But I don’t. All I know is that I must love and care for others a lot more than I do, and extend my heart to more than those I just meet and get to know in church.

That's a lot of work. Any ideas?

Our Refuge and Strength

2005-07-07T23:19:00.000+01:00

It's been a long day. The bombs came as many were getting to work. But John and I, our family and loved ones are safe! (For good factual updates, please click on the link of today's title.)

It is early days, and there is still a lot to unfold from the tragedy. I re-visited what I wrote last Thursday (my last post), and much of the thinking applies, somewhat eerily, to today's events here in London.

When I am awake and the Lord refreshens my thought process, I will write more of what is happening here with those we love, live, and work with. This tragedy touches us all.

For now, I am thankful for all those who showed kindness and compassion to those in dire need today down in the tunnels, at the stations, and on the streets. Their tremendous responses and service will never be forgotten. Christ lived in them!

On days like today, the musical picture of God presented to us in Psalm 46 says it all. Lord, please keep all those who are suffering through this tragedy wrapped up in your arms of love and strength.
___________________________________________________
For the Choir Director: A Psalm of the Descendants of Korah, to be sung by soprano voices according to alamoth. A song.

Psalm 46 (NLT)

1 God is our refuge and strength,
always ready to help in times of trouble.
2 So we will not fear, even if earthquakes come
and the mountains crumble into the sea.
3 Let the oceans roar and foam.
Let the mountains tremble as the waters surge!

Interlude

4 A river brings joy to the city of our God,
the sacred home of the Most High.
5 God himself lives in that city; it cannot be destroyed.
God will protect it at the break of day.
6 The nations are in an uproar,
and kingdoms crumble!
God thunders, and the earth melts!
7 The LORD Almighty is here among us;
the God of Israel is our fortress.

Interlude

8 Come, see the glorious works of the LORD:
See how he brings destruction upon the world
9 and causes wars to end throughout the earth.
He breaks the bow and snaps the spear in two;
he burns the shields with fire.

10 “Be silent, and know that I am God!
I will be honored by every nation.
I will be honored throughout the world.”
11 The LORD Almighty is here among us;
the God of Israel is our fortress.

Interlude

As Surely as the Morning's Dawn

2005-06-30T14:20:00.000+01:00

Oh, that we might know the Lord!
Let us search to know Him better.
As surely as the morning’s dawn
is His daily arrival and presence in our lives.
He comes to us as the showers,
as the autumn and spring rains that water the earth.
-- Hosea 6:3

We are finally getting some much-needed rain. What a relief! It has been hot here. Wimbledon hasn’t seen or smelled such sweat in a while, I reckon.

Rain is a huge reminder to me of Who is really in control. Rain is always in the conversation here, as in 'It rains too much!' But, believe it or not, we are in a drought year, and prayer requests include rain. That's probably why it has been hot so early in the year. Heat and drought -- one element and one condition the English are neither too familiar with!

Those of us from states such as Colorado, Texas, New Mexico, etc., might laugh at our predicament here. But just having flown back from Scotland, it was a shocker to look down from the sky and see so many shades of brown in the colour scheme of our earthen patchwork quilt. Our Kent does not quite resemble the dusty plains of West Texas, but …!

When it comes to weather, we whinge a lot. We all have our preferences. (Click on today's title.) John loves the heat. Getting off the plane from Inverness, where we were blessed with glorious sunny blue skies and breezy days, it actually felt like we were stepping off the plane in Majorca or Cyprus, not London. He was just revelling and loving the sweat!

Me? I like it cool, and I don’t mind the rain. I am spoilt by air-conditioning, because to survive in most of the places I’ve lived, it would be in the upper 80’s (Fahrenheit) to start off, but then languish between 94F and over 100F for six months out of the year. It was too hot to swim outdoors, because the water in the pool gets hot enough for tea. The pavement has been known to fry eggs. And no one drives with their soft-top down because they would be scorched. So everyone stays inside air-conditioned cocoons: homes, schools, cars, businesses, hotels, restaurants, hospitals, and churches! All are designed to be equipped with cool air support.

In England, not much of every-day life is adjusted for air-conditioned cocoons. Things like ceiling fans are fashion statements, and if they are turned to operate on 'high' instead of low people are afraid their heads will get chopped off. They do not understand how to run them or how to even position basic pedestal fans in the places that will render the best airflow for a cool breeze. People in church stoically suffer through the heat. They would rather die fainting then seek aid from a cool breeze.

Not me! Give me one of those mini hand-held, battery-operated rotary fans with plastic blades any day!! But then, that is my natural inclination. To the Sun Worshippers in the UK, heat is a luxury to wallow in for two weeks on holiday in Spain or the Canary Islands. They are not used to the consistency of daily life with heat. And, until the last couple of years, they have not had to live with high temperatures. Air-conditioned cocoons would be an extremely expensive option for only a few days out of a year that is mostly cold and rainy. That’s why over 1,000 people died here of heat stroke last year.

Sometimes, God takes me to a place where my senses must re-learn to appreciate elements and conditions I have taken for granted. The zone has become too comfortable. Before Noah and the Ark, it never rained. It just misted. I guess Noah was more used to having umbrellas for shoes rather than for his head.

But mostly, God just wants to remind me that He is in control. He has so much to offer me, if only I will admit it, and come to Him for ‘relief’. He does not want me to faint or die when He provides life-sustaining resources.

God is in today’s breeze;
His breath gently caresses my face with loving coolness.
He soothes the affront of the day and restores confidence.

He is the shade of the willow tree
Under which I sit, captivated by our visit,
Knowing the conversation with Him does not ever have to end.

He flows through the streams
Where the waters ripple to lap at my ankles and tickle my feet;
His laughter holds my footing firm in the currents.

His is the gentle rain,
Its music and rhythms against my windowsill
Composing thoughts refreshed and inspired.

When God makes the clouds burst,
The torrent fills my well with emotion and surprise:
He invites me to drink and taste the goodness of Heaven on earth.

God wants to touch me and bring me into His presence:
How will I reach out to feel and accept Him?

My Heart's in the Highlands! --Part 1

2005-06-29T23:00:00.000+01:00

Need to escape this London heat wave? Scotland is just the place, and the Moray Firth offers just the relief you need!

The last seven days, John and I saw some of God’s most glorious beauty in the Highlands near Cawdor, Nairn, and Inverness. (Click on today's title.) We felt the dampness and spray from the massive Loch Ness. ‘Nessie’ stayed out of sight – too many tourists! And we learned of the Jacobites, and the tragic story and ensuing consequences of the Battle of Culloden.

This was such a meaningful trip for me. Every holiday and its locale is special. But this journey into the Highlands, for me, was like a dream come true. My mind is so full of first impressions, and a re-ordering of life-long expectations. As I write, my darting mind is an indication that I will need to post this in two parts.

HIGHLAND DREAMS
It has always been a childhood dream of mine to go to the Highlands of Scotland. I went to Edinburgh with my grandmother when I was 11. Granted, Edinburgh is not the Highlands, but at that age, what young lass would not be enchanted by the Castle when the sun is setting? Still, it whetted my appetite to reach higher someday.

I remember being only four years old when, while living in Carlsbad, New Mexico, my family went to the annual 4th of July parade. All the big bands, rodeo queens, grand horses, and clowns throwing miniature loaves of Rainbow Bread into the crowd passed by with their usual festivity. But what really enthralled this young girl was the pageantry and sounds of the bagpipe brigade that came down Main Street. With a crystal clear New Mexico sky above, the sounds in B-flat filled the horizon and beyond. I cried because I thought, next to the piano, those bagpipes played the most beautiful music I had ever heard!

Why this intense emotion for things Scottish I will never know. Being adopted, I figure perhaps it could be a DNA-thing. Pretty much everyone has some interest in where they came from, and for me Scotland is one of those places I feel some ancestral connection with. I lovingly adopted this myth myself when I was eight years old and was given a 6-week 3rd grade assignment to explore ‘where I came from’. Do teachers understand the implications for research this means to kids out there who are adopted and are not told anything?

My Mother, Lorna, took my histrionics in stride when I came home from school all gloom-faced, knowing I was doomed to fail this ‘project’. She sat me down at the kitchen table, and settled me down with a glass of milk and some cookies (ah, comfort food!). After hearing my dilemma, she said:

‘Oh, that shouldn’t be so difficult, and ought to be a lot of fun! Your dad’s family comes from England, Norway, and possibly France. On my side, you know we’re Scottish, from Clan Hunter, and English. You know how Grandmother Jewel always has milk in her tea. Oh, and Black Dutch.’

Black Dutch? That one threw me.

‘Yes, Black Dutch. People from Holland who are not blonde or blue-eyed, and have more of an olive complexion, like mine.’ (http://www.genealogy.com/heard092602.html?priority=0000900)

Mother went on:
‘Now, you can either choose to be from any of those countries – put your dad’s countries together with mine. OR, you can choose to be from wherever you want to be from. How about that?’

Well, that was just the best news of the entire school year! At the time, some of my favourite piano pieces to play were by the Norwegian composer, Edvard Grieg. But what really clinched the deal and gave me confidence in getting an A+-grade was the fact that I always teared up whenever I heard bagpipes. So then and there, I decided to be Scottish-Norwegian. That night, mother helped me design my own special tartan.

My mother was, I am certain, using wisdom endowed by her Scottish ancestry!

At age 12, when we moved to Kandahar, I learned that the bagpipes actually originated in India. Their journey through the ages to Scotland only made them more fascinating.

When we returned to the US from Afghanistan, the high school I attended in Los Angeles had a thriving drama department. I was hoping to land the role of Meg in Brigadoon (the stage version is much better than the naff movie). But after all the dance and diction prep, we moved again, and the role slipped away.

But not the dream!

WHAT MYTHS?
John and I flew into Inverness Airport on a sunny day. The airport is actually about twenty minutes outside of Inverness. Its two runways are so close to the Moray Firth we thought Mohammed, our friendly EasyJet pilot, was about to land deep beneath the waves. The airport itself is about the size of the Abilene Regional Airport in Abilene, Texas.

As we waited with other travellers by the luggage carrel, John and I were expecting to hear some thick Scottish brogues as families came to greet and collect. John had been worried that we would not be able to understand anyone, because a thick Scottish accent can be very disorientating. We heard many accents: the usual array of English, some American, Asian, and Eastern European. So far, no confusion.

By the time we collected our hire car we understood every word. The people at Eurocar were extremely friendly, and had the softest of brogues, as did the kind lady at the till at Tesco’s, where we got our week’s supply of food. The couple that ran our self-catering cottage had lived in Australia for almost 30 years, and were not Scottish.

So, where were the thick Scottish brogues? Apparently, only in Hollywood, Glasgow, the Lowlands, and down at the Border. The Highlanders are known more for their softer brogue, as their words are derived from Gaelic.

Stay tuned for My Heart’s in the Highlands, Part Deux!

Forbidden Worship

2005-06-20T21:37:00.000+01:00

I grew up in a church that, in essence, drew up strict guidelines as to what could constitute ‘worship’. Worship to God was a corporate duty, an act of reverence done within the walls of a church building. And within those strict guidelines imposed by church leadership, acts of worship were to be performed – oh, excuse me! – facilitated by men. Women near the alter during the time of corporate worship was a forbidden transgression.

Mary, the mother of Jesus, was only mentioned during the Christmas season, depending upon whether or not the Church of Christ we were attending that year (adventurous relocation was a favourite family pastime) even believed in celebrating Christmas (possibly a topic for a future post, if I can summon up the energy for that discussion). Her magnificent prayer, the Magnificat, found in the Gospel of Luke, was barely breathed and rarely intoned, so sadly I was never made much aware of it. Certainly, this lovely piece of scripture was never called ‘the Magnificat’ in my childhood presence, as at the time, most of the adults around me seemed to be categorically incensed at all the Catholics nearby and around the world.

God has graciously shown me through the years how different friends have come to know Him. Their testimonies are tapestries vibrant with colour. Some are variations on a theme of mine, whilst others are miracles one can only marvel at. God creatively draws people into relationship with Himself. All the evangelistic ‘methodology’ brilliantly applied can go pear-shaped when God decides to become artistically active in ‘winning souls’ His way.

He has had lots of fun in reordering my own limited thinking on several occasions. My journey with Him began from birth and I felt The Road at a very early age. From the earliest recollections, I have always loved:

Hymns, with their glorious message of Christ sung through meaningful poetry and prose;
Singing a cappella with others, in close, inspired, spontaneous harmony;
Pianos, and the many ways they can sound.

Now, if I had been enrolled as, say for example, a Baptist, this would have been icing on the church cake. And, initially, if I had been born a male, just stick little old me in my Moses basket in between the choir and the organist or church pianist, and let me sing my developing lungs out in rapture and ecstasy!

But, alas, God in His mysterious wisdom and ultimate creativity decided to make me a girl, then bonded me and my Moses basket to a pew several rows back from the alter. Far away from the men and that guy holding the ‘pitch pipe’ (another topic for a future post). Because, in a strange twist of divine intervention, the pews I was grounded on as a child were in churches where instrumental music was yet another major transgression.

The Forbidden Worship imposed upon the heart and mind of this child were three-fold:

Worship as an uninhibited expression of my adoration and love to God and Christ;
Full spiritual development as a person of God because He created me female;
Using the piano or other instruments to:

glorify His wondrous power and might in creation;
evoke His love, joy, and peace;
bring His ageless stories to life!

Travelling beyond each new decade marker, the blessings of learning and experience are indeed profound. It becomes easier to identify the best of the good things I learned on those pews, and to realise that they are a pleasing part of the fabric God has woven into my own tapestry. Throughout the years in our journey together, His inexplicable grace and the life of Jesus have rescued me from that stark, uncomfortable pew set back at a glaring distance from the ‘alter’. He has used wide brush strokes to place me closer to that place of ultimate devotion and communion with Him, His Son, and the Holy Spirit.

A reference to Myers-Briggs was made in an earlier post on this site (30th April). The MBTI is a very solid and successful tool used in many professions and amongst academics to assess one’s personality/psychological type. You can access the link to their site by clicking above on today's title.

I have taken the complete formal MBTI instrument three times: in 1987 as a requirement for Seminary studies; again in 1990 for post-graduate studies at a different university; and recently this year, an informal administration of this tool as a way of re-visiting my ‘type’ prior to spiritual development offered through the Rochester Diocese. In each decade the results have been the same: I am undoubtedly ENFP. My husband John is INTJ. (See below for our sample MB prayer types.)

I mention this because each one of us is a new creation designed especially by our loving God. The MBTI is one fascinating way of finding out what makes you tick. It only requires that you be totally honest with yourself. It is amazing to re-discover our inner child by uncovering all the layers of influence moulding our lives. It is an eye-opener to be made aware of which influences come from God, and which come from our fellow man.

When we get to the heart of the matter and find out what influences have forbidden worship in our lives, we feel God’s abiding presence to the fullest. What a joyous release! God created the INTJ with the same love and compassion He created the ENFP. When we are aware of each other’s types, we can appreciate and respect each other’s journey on the road to worship in a whole new light. We might even be able to help clear up the cluttering influences in each other’s paths if we know what to watch out for.

In his book, ‘The Purpose Driven Life’, Rick Warren reminds us that we were planned for God’s pleasure. This pleasure we bring God is worship. Warren writes: …’ the best style of worship is the one that most authentically represents your love for God.’

Have you misplaced your original and unique practice of pleasing God as certain influences have crowded around and invaded His space in your life?
What influences have forbidden worship in your life-time?
Have you noted God’s ingenious ways of ‘diversion’ to bring you back into His presence?
How do you influence worship in the hearts and minds of the children around you?

With Forbidden Worship, Part II, I’ll visit the journey of re-direct God performs in His desire to draw us ever nearer in our worship to Him.
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What a relief that our Lord accepts all ‘types’! Prayer samples for two Myers-Briggs types:

INTJ: 'Lord, keep me open to others' ideas, wrong though they may be.'

(Introversion Intuiting Thinking Judgment)

ENFP: ‘Lord, help me to keep my mind on one th – look, a bird! – ing at a time.’

(Extroversion Intuiting Feeling Perception)

Clogging and the Thought Process

2005-06-01T01:56:00.000+01:00

Ever had a sinus infection so bad you realised later that your thoughts were not as coherent as you might have wished? When you needed your thoughts, your timing and balance were off?

That’s been my asymmetrical state of affairs for the past week. Last Wednesday, I went to take Snikkerz for her much needed grooming. The dear lady who lovingly grooms Snik was going through a tough time herself. So while she took care of Snikkerz, I had enough time, just, to go get her some flowers. I also wanted to make sure I had the correct amount of change to pay her. So I applied my fuzzy maths at the cash machine in our village square. By the time I went to get Snikkerz, I was armed with compassion and ready to pay £15.00. I wanted to add £1 for a little extra.

With two notes and a one-pound coin clutched in the palm of my hand, I gave the flower arrangements to the sweet lady, and collected Snikkerz. Once Snikkerz was settled in the car, I began to start the engines when I noticed that I was not only gripping the steering wheel, but the money still owed! So I got out of the car and sheepishly rang the groomer’s doorbell. She opened it before a sound could ring out, and laughed at my scatterbrained self. I gave her the money and made my weaving retreat back to the car. By now, my clogged head and dizzy body needed to hit the pillow, things were so foggy!

Three days later, I looked in my wallet only to discover with embarrased dismay that a £10-pound note was still present. Ms Groomer only got two fivers!

Too dizzy to take care of it immediately. The bank holiday is now over and the £10 is on its way.

THE PROMS! Just as my clogged mind views a clearing, more clogging appears in the distance. I requested tickets online today for this season’s musical offerings. After choosing several delectable concerts, I entered the requisite information, then clicked the ‘send’ button to pay for the glorious sounds.

As this was my first Proms ticket request, I called the Royal Albert Hall booking office to have any fears allayed by the ticket rep. A woman with a caring voice confirmed (boy, am I easily conned!) that my request had been received. It was ‘second in line to being processed’. Small comfort. This meant only that once the other 11,000+ requests pouring in before I rang had been filled, mine would be in fine standing. IF there are any seats left for the concerts I ‘booked’, the RAH ticket agent will ring and let me know which concerts I got lucky with. As they state online: ‘Applications will be processed from Monday 16 May and tickets will be allocated subject to availability.’

That’s a lot of people going to The Proms, and it’s not even 13 June, when the telephone booking officially opens. But, I did it during the ‘unofficial’ early period, and according to RAH booking: ‘This booking period represents the best chance of getting the seats you want.’

With over 11,000 applicants before the official booking opens, that’s a lot of cloggers on the promenade deck!

My timing and balance might still be off …

Connecting with God

2005-05-23T11:32:00.000+01:00

Yesterday, most churches in the UK celebrated Trinity Sunday. It came one day after I drove down to Southborough to attend ‘It’s Your Calling’. I was actually driving to a new locale by myself. Of course, it had to be a dark cerulean day, complete with overweight rainy clouds. 'It's Your Calling' was the place for me to discover the ‘authorised’ ministries the Rochester Diocese has on offer for training and equipping its members. It is the next step for me to take as I seek how to serve the Lord and His church in this country with the talents He has gifted me. He blessed me with nature art on the way home when the sun burst out and the biggest rainbow ever splashed its colours all over the beautiful green downs and valley! What a message!!

Trinity Sunday also came one day before I read a blog entry from my friend, Mary Lou (click above on title). I met Mary Lou and her Christian high school sweetheart, Kim, years ago on a youth mission bus from Baytown, Texas. The occasion was a summer campaign for Christ in St. Louis, Missouri, organised by my uncle, Stanley Shipp, a dynamic-and-in-your-life evangelist. Mary Lou, now a master English-language teacher, writes that she started off her blog with Sunday and Church, relating both as synonyms. She ends with a thought posed by her Sunday school teacher: that worship and service are also synonymous.

My blog entry today is, besides being long (go get a cuppa!), a bit of reflection on all of the above, and a rather poor commentary on Mary Lou’s blog. We are both researchers on this quest.

Hmmmm ... service for God and worship to God are synonymous ...

I’m quibbling with the prepositions. What if we did a switch, and said 'service to God and worship for God'? Did God quibble with prepositions when He was creating the world?

I'm chewing on this one, too. The first word that pops into my mind when I think of 'service' is 'sacrifice'. That word is so weighty, like those rain clouds I had to contend with on the way to Southborough! Could it be residual leftovers from a CofC upbringing? I've been told by several religious pundits: God does not need you, but He does want your love.

Throughout my lifetime in a variety of churches, godly men and women have informed me God would be displeased by my not serving others (like them, or doing things they would rather supervise but not do). They implied that I would not be allowed to enter honest worship if I did not comply with the needs of the church.

I think about 'sacrifice', and am reminded of sacrifices studied in the OT. The very first sacrifice seems to be a hot contest of offerings between two brothers. One offering missed the mark, and did not please God (who obviously is not a total Vegan). Professional jealousy, pride and murder emerged – oh, excuse me! -- materialised, from that sacrifice. I understand ‘emerge’ is now being used as a new buzzword for American evangelicals, as in ‘emergent church’?

Sacrifices were brutal and bloody, ugly and humbling, and smelly with incense. (My family related to the visceral experience of those OT sacrifices when we lived in Afghanistan and Egypt, and watched our Muslim friends make their animal sacrifices.) They are gut wrenching to observe. But they were to give God glory, and that is what He wants us to do. Today we have the searing image of Christ and His sacrifice for our sins upon the Cross. He tries to tell His disciples, those who would be leading a new ‘emergent church’, what it’s all about in John 14:15-30.

We had two fabulous readings yesterday: one was doom and gloom – Isaiah 40:12-17 and 21-31 – with an upbeat reminder that our God never grows tired or weary (so maybe there’s hope for some of the new worship songs where the same one-to-two line verse gets repeated over and over for 15-minutes). The other reading was Psalm 8, which is so powerful in its descriptions of God’s awesome and majestic nature. (Anyone remember singing Tom Fettke’s ‘Majesty and Glory of Your Name’? I still love this choral piece!)

I guess all three of those scriptures converge at some point to say that we give glory to God when we love and obey Him, and those acts produce our worship to God. Not to mention the Trinitarian concepts found within.

I love my running conversations with God. These are parts of my continual worship with Him. Not everyone knows about all the times God and I are in conversation. It’s none of their business, and is not a tick in the box for them to keep an accountability score. (Kind of like the 40 days of Lent, when people want to know what everyone else is sacrificing, like it's a game, but that’s another rabbit trail.) I guess when I go about the mundane, every-day tasks and I keep God present in those, God will speak to others, as He desires. If I glorify God in the smallest daily event or object, a natural consequence of that private worship will be to edify others as they see Christ in me. At that point, the Holy Spirit will take over.

I wonder if today’s idea of corporate worship is still in concert with what the Apostles had in mind when they were helping the first churches to ‘emerge’?

Did Jesus address the idea of corporate worship? If so, then how? In His ministry time, what did He do? But what makes me even more curious is wanting to know how He worshipped prior to age 30. Somewhere in there He developed a knowing presence of God. Well, He was perfect, so perhaps He did not need to develop, like you and me. I know He participated in worship at the Temple. The thought of worshipping with Jesus -- wow! Did He sing out when He sang the hymns? Did He close His eyes during the Readings (OT, of course!), or was He on the Temple Rota-to-Read? What was His 'preferred worship style'? Did He play the harp or have a go at the shofar? Did He enjoy singing in the a cappella Temple choir, or did He teach the youth? Did He get a choice of worship styles when He went to Temple, or is that a modern-day convenience a lot of us demand and enjoy? We all know that He openly questioned the leaders a lot. Now there's a thought!

When Jesus left to be with our Father in Heaven, He promised a paraclete (Greek), a Comforter, Encourager, Counselor, Advocate: the Holy Spirit. God is always with us. For the moment, when I look at each of those English definitions of the Greek word, I see Christ's body. As a group of Believers come together as one, I just want to be a part of a group that can be each of those things to one another. By the power of the Holy Spirit.

This weekend at 'It's Your Calling' I read some inspiring words by St Teresa of Avila:

Christ has no body now on earth but yours,
No hands but yours, no feet but yours;
Yours are the eyes through which to look out
And see Christ's compassion to the world,
Yours are the feet with which He is to go about doing good,
And yours are the hands with which He is to bless us now.

love ... obedience ... sacrifice ... honour ... glory ...
Service
Worship
GOD!

To ASA the WONDER DOG!

2005-05-20T10:57:00.000+01:00

Today's post comes direct from the Doggy Desk of our beloved pet, DEE-OH'-GEE, to her new Puppy Friend, ASA ...

My Dear Asa -

Arf! Welcome to the Wonderful World of People!

My People Parents thought I might like to share some of my treats with you. Anything to help you adjust!

So please find enclosed, with my compliments, a couple of Bones (the non-Human variety -- those are so disgusting -- yechhhh!!) that have helped me tremendously in trying to get along with People. These Bones are a special variety of leather hide. With teeth like ours, the layers are easy-peasy to handle (if you know what I mean ... jaw strength rules!!). Enjoy chewing them as a much better alternative to People things, such as ladies knickers, furniture, and shoes. I know there will be times when temptation will hover. But People get really upset if we Canines chew their shoes, because their paws are not like anything we've ever seen! One great Bone benefit both you and your People Parents will enjoy: you will keep Doggy halitosis at BAY. Not only will this help you will feel much better, the People will also enjoy getting into your space more (learn to deal with that).

There are so many things I wish I could impart, but you are already undoubtedly feeling overwhelmed. A small word of advice, though: You will understand the needs and language of your People Parents a lot sooner than they will understand you. Sorry, Pups, but that's a Dog's life. Take it from me, I know. It's been almost 8 years, and my People Parents, God love 'em (and He does!), are still trying to decode and translate every bark, nudge, and look I give them. If you're ever in doubt, just go with what we call the 'hang-dog' look. You'll figure it out soon enough if you haven't already. It's in our Doggy DNA. That look gets 'em everytime!

Enjoy dem bones ... ARF ARF!
DEE-OH'GEE

ACW, Regent Hall, and the Four Rings

2005-05-16T23:21:00.000+01:00

Oxford Circus was a fun four-ring affair this past Saturday. It was an overcast day, typical for May -- cool and windy. On most Saturdays in the Spring, Oxford Circus is steaming with tourists, and this day was no different.

RING ONE
I was there under the auspices of 'helping' my friend Penny with an event hosted by the Association of Christian Writers (ACW) here in the UK. 'A Word to the Wise' was a special conference where successful Christian writers from America gave of their time to come over and share their craft for writing and publishing with British Christian writers. As the market for Christian literature in the UK is extremely weak, writers need to learn how best to get their works published in the American market. The speakers Penny sought out to come are successful and informed. They blessed everyone with the gift of encouragement, which is needed in great doses as, sadly, Christian publishers like Zondervan are pulling out of the UK market. The conference was very well attended, and the speakers just excellent. I was so happy for Penny -- her prayers were answered in abundance!

Am not quite sure exactly how I helped Penny, because I was having way too much fun sitting in on the lectures and networking with some absolutely awesome people who have a passion for the Lord and for writing. Yet in the midst of it all, God gave me a few small adventures to remind me that He wants to keep my writing grounded in music.

RING TWO
ACW holds its meetings and events in London's Regent Hall, the historic site for the Salvation Army ( www.regenthall.co.uk/regent ). In the US we mainly think of the Salvation Army as those uniformed people who ring bells in front of grocery stores at Christmastime, asking people to put their monetary donations into a black kettle. In the UK, the Salvation Army is a vital spiritual presence, and their churches seem to do better than most in getting the message of Christ out to more than just the disenfranchised.

Regent Hall, for me this past Saturday, was a calm in the middle of the three-ring circus on Oxford Street. I arrived 45-minutes before Penny or any of the others from ACW. I met the diligent staff, who run a lovely cafe and small Christian bookstore, in addition to taking care of the rest of the church. The cafe was not yet opened, so I debated walking down to Starbucks for a cuppa. But I noticed the large hall was empty, and sitting up on the stage in front of the 'choir loft' was a Steinway concert grand piano. All alone. No one was about. Everything around, so still and quiet. I had to play that piano! So for about 30-minutes, I did. God was sitting beside me, just singing in my ear, and each tone from that Steinway was wrapped by angels.

RING THREE
After lunch, I needed to raid a cash machine to purchase some of the books the authors had brought with them. ACW was not ready for credit card purchases. So out the door I traipsed and onto the crowded walk to strike it rich. The first two cash machines I made it to were out of cash (tourists!). By the time I finally crawled to one that was loaded, I had ventured off Oxford Street and all the way down Bond Street. Due to recent knee surgery, I desperately needed a break. Clinging to my newly acquired pounds (in more ways than one), my eyes focused on a store sign across the street. Chappell of Bond Street. My favourite music store! I usually order from them online. Their staff can find any piece of music one needs, no matter how obscure the manuscript. They have been my heroes on more than one panic-stricken occasion. Have always wanted to go into the store and just browse. So God carried me across the street, and as I slid joyfully down the stairs to the sheet music room, a corner of Heaven full of great music awaited. This place is so old, the mould has been lovingly framed (a favourite past-time here).

Found a new Urtext edition of Chopin Preludes, Op 28, and Op 45. Op 45 is one I would like to add to my repertoire. Also finally acquired some music composed by Clara Schumann, a phenomenal pianist, wife, mother, and friend to an unlovable Brahms. Then, a contemporary urge told me to buy the Shostakovich Preludes, Op 34.

Upon returning to Regent Hall, there were handbills announcing a piano recital that would be performed on that awesome Steinway that very evening, with the proceeds going to UNICEF. Perhaps in the future, the Lord will lead me to perform a recital at Regent Hall that includes some of the jewels just mentioned above. The proceeds could go to help so many needful efforts.

RING FOUR
The last lecture of the day was in none other than Regent Hall's famous Band Hall, which is just dripping with history (www.regenthall.co.uk/regent/rhb/rhbhistory.shtml). The mould is so old that frames have difficulty containing it. Attendees were packed in to a fabulous lecture by Davis Bunn. I loved learning from Davis, but I must admit the ENFP in me had my eyes continually straying to all the historic pictures of band members and events that are etched in time. The many ways God has used the Regent Hall Band to witness for His Kingdom are legendary in these parts. What a tremendous ministry!

Inspiring and humbling. A combination only our God could craft!

Blessings!

Flowers of the heart

2005-05-10T00:28:00.000+01:00

Well, it's the end of Monday. Actually, I just looked at the clock and Tuesday has been lurking about. This season, evening stays light so late, that when darkness falls, I feel I need to be up longer just to absorb and enjoy the new colour(s).

I was going to meet my pillow much sooner, but there's a lot to think about. I am still very new to this blogging sport, and anticipate the times I can spend indulging in it. Is it easy to get bogged down blogging? We'll see.

I shrink with horror when I re-read the bit I originally wrote underneath 'About Me'. My American buddies will not notice anything too unusual in the wording of 'I just have to figure out which way He's pulling!' Of course, when I use the term 'pulling', I am trying to imply that God is there to drag, or haul, me out of the muck. And I did not think twice when I wrote and posted that (big mistake). But my English buddies are so going to laugh and go 'tsk, tsk', because to them, when someone is 'pulling' another person, that means they are kissing the other person in a grotesque manner. Someone is doing a serious heave-ho on the lips of another, Hoovering away in passion. I am just so mortified, and MAJOR apologies to my British buddies. BUT, I have tried several times now to correct and re-edit the wording to be less offensive, and Blogger.com is not being very cooperative. Of course, I think a kiss from God is absolutely wonderful, but the actual image of 'pulling' is somewhat revolting (you would have to see some telly adverts over here to understand where I'm coming from on this), and totally messes with the beautiful imagery I have ever had of God kissing me or any of His other children.

Now, on to other thoughts that are more deserving ...

Mother's Day USA has just passed. Here in the UK, we call it Mothering Sunday. I thought that unusual when I moved here a few years ago, and also found out it takes place on the fourth Sunday of Lent, which comes a lot earlier than Mother's Day USA. According to the BBC Religion and Ethics site:
' ... Traditionally, it was a day when children, mainly daughters, who had gone to work as domestic servants were given a day off to visit their mother and family.'

If you would like to read more interesting theological notes on Mothering Sunday in the UK it's all in the link above. Enjoy!

I have been fortunate to have three mothers. One I have never met. For some blessed reason, she had me, and decided it would be best to give me to a beautiful young Christian lady named Lorna. Together with my father, LL, Lorna loved me, nurtured me, and showed me God's presence through an abundance of adventures during my childhood and through young adulthood. When I was aged 27, this lovely mother left to experience God's healing presence for eternity. She was so young, but her spirit was eager to see God. It wasn't long before the Lord ushered in another lovely Christian woman, Peggy. For the past 23 years, Peggy has mentored me through adulthood as a single woman. Through recent years, as I've married and become a stepmother myself, Peggy has been the perfect role model. If I can but be as gracious and loving to my stepdaughters as Peggy has been to me all these years, then I will have served a worthy purpose!

Isn't it grand how God knows who to place in our path at crucial times in our lives? I think of how Naomi was given to Ruth, and how Elizabeth loved Mary with so much grace. God lovingly fills in gaps that were once so very painful, and makes them incredibly whole.

There are some daughters I know of who are presently experiencing the pain and loss of their dear, sweet mothers. One mother was much too young to leave. Two other mothers who lived long and remarkable lives knew, peacefully, that it was time to go. Their daughters know a sweet sorrow, and for the most part, rejoiced at the merciful release into a new life with our Heavenly Father.

For the teenage daughter I know who recently lost her wonderful young mother, aged 48, I want her to know this: Your mom is with you now. I pray you will always be wrapped by the fragrance of your mother's presence, even as she now sings in God's glorious throne room. You will feel her close by. The pain and sorrow will be a journey to endure for a while. Tears will flow, and that's okay ... allow them to water the flowers of your heart. Remember that some flowers will need more nourishment than others, and you can set your own time for endurance. When your dear mother was ill, she worried that you would not understand the path she was on, and was concerned for you. Now she no longer has to worry about you! Know that your mother has the best seat in the house when it comes to watching you grow into a beautiful young woman. (You began that transformation as you learned how to pray for your mother to be healed, and took care of her on the days when it meant so much to her.) That was her wish, as it was my own mother's who left me at almost the same age. She will walk side by side with God as you take your steps into adulthood and travel the journeys He places before you. And as time goes by, and the flowers of your heart take root, you will feel the sweetest strength imaginable. You will find your own faith in Him, and yet you will recognise beautiful images of your mother as you turn special corners in your own journeys with God. There is no shame in mourning ... your father and brother will partner with you as God hugs you all with His strength. The edges of pain will eventually soften, and you will begin to understand how wonderful it is to know Heaven is that much closer.

For now the nighttime grows its darkest, just before day begins to break and the birdsong lifts its tune to wake me up for another day. The night is short, indeed.

Blessings!

When time goes by ...

2005-04-30T18:49:00.000+01:00

It is 30th April. Exactly one month to the day since I first started my 'garden' post.

There is no hammock to lol about on or comfy swing to sit upon, and I have to now reflect, 'Well, why not?' Guess it's because I started digging in this space and could not figure out just what to do with it! (Where's Alan Titschmarch when you need him??) Where do I place the turf, and how do I arrange the plants? Will my garden have a deck, where I can bask in my thoughts on those glorious days when the sun is shining? Should I install a creative revolutionary water feature to help stimulate my thinking when my thoughts dry up? And where's the pergola to go? Enough with the garden metaphors!!

This month has just ripped by with activity, and God's presence has been hovering over me in a variety of ways. I'm glad God hovers ... is He waiting for me to make a move I don't yet know about? I have felt like something's up. There are several options He's presented to me. All enticing. Have just come from the 4th Arrival Day put on by our diocese (Rochester). It was terrific, and the training superb. I feel so blessed by all the new brothers and sisters in Christ I met; by those pastoral and spiritual leaders from the Cathedral who came to teach; by the four courses of ministry explored today. But mostly by God's presence. I felt it so keenly! He is responding to my many queries lately about where He wants me to go, and what He wants me to do. How, Lord, can I get out of the confines of this little box that seems to grow tinier? Well, I'm beginning to get some answers. One of the answers has been why the diocese call their 'training day' an 'arrival day'. God has 'arrived' in a special way to showcase all the fabulous opportunities He has yet to offer. With His continuing guidance, I will 'arrive' eventually. I marvel at the new adventures God keeps in store for us at each age in our journey with Him. Some He likes to spring on us, in surprise.

Some of the things I've had to consider since my first post here are:

How and what exactly do I post on a page that might be read by people who either know me, or don't? Should this become just a general comments/op-ed page? Or should I, like I've read from the blog pages of my American friends, just lay it all out and go for broke? I have yet to read any blogs from British friends, mainly because none I know are blogging. And they wouldn't let many know if they were, for fear of being sectioned. I suppose one blogs so that one's thoughts and opinions can 'go public'. Was this new literary sport dreamed up by an American in the first place? Otherwise, one's thoughts and opinions (and all that information!) would just stay under lock and key inside one's private journal.
How much do I reveal? Sharing openly about one's innermost feelings is not a British passion. There seems to be no need, and my family and friends here are masters at the art of understatement. How do they do it??? If I were still living in America, I could probably write a lot more transparently about my feelings than I feel I can here in the UK. It presents a stifling dilemma for me. Family and friends will turn several shades of red by what I could write. So shall I go the 'softly, softly' approach and try to please others, and save myself from humiliation? This whole 'creative writing project' would make a great exercise for me to learn to be, hmmmmm, more frugal with my thoughts. Thinking about the discipline of that does take extreme effort.
Should I write an entry every day, or when my thoughts are wise and lucid? Eh, eh. When are they ever? Even at this age, I still get 'Earth to Debi'! The daily entry does not seem all that feasible a promise I could keep. Once a week is a good goal, but once a month seems a long wait between entries. We'll see ...

Thanks! to Rochester Diocese for affirming what I have suspected for a few decades. Today, I took the Myers-Briggs for the first time this decade, and learned yet again that I am an ENFP. Did God realise this when He created me? He likes details. More than I am supposed to, apparently. This time around I am married to a wonderful guy who just found out he is an INTJ, and now thinks he has the keys to know how to handle me. We are having a fun re-think about our relationship. And we are rejoicing at the confirmation that God meant us to be together in spite of it all! God's grand sense of humour has certainly not been lost on this day. What tremendous ways He has of gifting us, eh?

So because I am now emboldened by my ENFP status, I feel I may post anything I need to write. Others will just have to choose the shade of red they might turn at whatever they may read. They can even choose a different colour if red is not a part of their own MB scheme.

Those of you who know me well know what I mean: it's hard to keep an ENFP down!

YIKES!! I just looked at the time!! Tonight was the night the Daleks return on Dr Who, and I was supposed to record it for John while he has been diligently out in our real garden painting our new fence. He had planned for us to watch it with our jacket potatoes after he was finished in the garden. Well, as I've been blogging away in my literary garden, the Daleks and Dr Who have departed and won't be back until next week. I am so in trouble!!! Pray for me ...

Blessings all!

Welcome to Views from My Garden!

2005-03-30T15:52:00.000+01:00

The views will be reflections on some of my favourite Topics.

Some TOPICS for viewing:

The ARTS in Music, Theatre, Film, Dance, and Worship

CHRISTIANITY
Through the Teachings of Christ
Its Development through History & Society
In World Cultures
In Today's World
In Relationship to other Belief Systems
The Spiritual Journey

LITERATURE
TRAVELS & CULTURES
EDUCATION
HISTORY

Every garden needs pruning and weeding. The landscape will at times need re-designing and re-shaping. But the results, when one can sit back and relax, can be fragrant, fulfilling, inspirational, and uplifting. I will take special care to be disciplined with my entries. Should I fail to tend the Garden one day, then more planting, pruning, and growth will occur on another. I won't always use garden metaphors.

For this day, it is time to come in from the Garden. But I am already looking forward to my next visit ... even if the sun is hiding!