Walking between 2 walls?

I found myself between Cotswold walls today.

I’d walked a mile or two or three, enjoyed the views and the warm caress of the late summer sun.  Found a place I knew not before. Peered into old churches ringing with centuries of worship and liturgy and people. Imagined ancestors kneeling with toil worn fingers and rheumaticky knees. Imagined them listening to the chants and the anthems. Imagined them slouching on the ancient pews, kept awake by fear of the wardens’ poking poles.

Imagined their prayers and cares, their dependence on God. And heard their silence.

So I walked in the sun again, followed the lane as it wound through the trees, past the grand Manor House and the small thatched cottage.  Smelled the last of the summer red roses, ran my fingers through the rosemary. And found myself between Cotswold walls.  Higher than my head, topped with apple trees weighed down with the promise of harvest. The sun unable to compete with the height of the walls; I was shadowed.

Shadowed - and conscious of the heavy, heady silence.  Sheltered.  Away from reality.

Away from the sunshine. Away from the views I was enjoying. The walls kept pace with the path.  Or the path followed the walls.

A narrow road. A dark road. A road of silence. Beyond: sunshine. Views.  The sound of a lawnmower being tidy.

But here, for me, for now: Narrow. Dark. Silent.

And it was the parable of the past twenty four months: two years of mourning. The years of narrow and dark and silent. Cut off from the land of the living. From the warmth and the sunshine. From the laughter. From the outward view. Confined to walk this path, hearing no-one, seeing nothing, on and on.

And I knew that One had walked this Way before me. Cut off from the land of living. Confined to silence and darkness.  Narrowed. Broken even. For me. For you and for me.

I trudged on. Glimpses of sunshine broke through. Glimpses of a vista, hints of spaces. I came to the chestnut tree and saw the horizon. And my eyes were open and my ears could hear and once again I was in the world around me.

And this is how it is.  For Him, the narrow, the dark, the silence of the tomb. And then the bursting forth.

I greet the sunshine. The view.  And know that it is His Power at work in me to enable me to burst forth too. Slowly.  Carefully. But it’s happening.  He’s doing it.

May He do it for you, too.

The insidious creepingness of all faiths and none

I am writing a daily blog (Monday to Friday)  on preparing spiritually and physically

to lead a Pilgrimage of 100 miles in September.

for details of the Pilgrimage, click on the dropdown Cotwold Pilgrimage bar at the top of this page 

Elation and excitement.

Arriving at Highgrove, home of HRH The Prince of Wales.

Being waved through the gate, shown where to park.

And Leave your cameras and mobile phones in your car. No photos. None whatsoever

Welcomed and led into the Gardens.

Our Guide, she was all pink and purple, with a peep of bright green wellies..

-Now, d’you see? she says, pointing out this plant and that.

- And His Royal Highness has such good sense of humour: d’you see? and she waves at the duck egg blue board which proclaimed: Entering an old fashioned establishment. GMO free.

- He is such a fun gracious man, she enthuses. He plans it all, chooses the plants.

He wants a garden which delights the eye, warms the heart, feeds the soul.

- D’you see that little statue? A thank you from the Welsh children’s charity.  He has them here for a Christmas party every year.

- Oh and when he takes us round each year and points out all the new things, it’s such an honour.  D’you see?

We did see – and there’s the boss!

That IS him, isn’t it, my boss, the Bishop of London.  Beheaded and on top of the wall.

- Are you a Vicar then, she enquires wide eyed? Yes, that’s the Bishop of London. And the other heads too: all people that the Prince admires. Dr Kathleen Raine, the poet and scholar; Sir John Taverner, the composer; Dr Vandana Shiva, the environmental campaigner. D’you see?

The rain is obliging and holds off. It’s damp and windy but dry.

And there we are, standing at the front door of the house.

Right at the front door. Did you ever think you would get this close, she asks? He wants you to see it all.

We do, we are -  in awe and wonder.

Is that his bedroom window, opened a crack, curtains parted? Does he sit hereon this garden bench? And here? He must be glad when we all are gone.

- And one last thing, she promises, d’you see? D’you see this plain wall and these simple wood doors?

She throws them open. The Carpet Garden. Based on the design of a Turkish carpet in the house.

It’s so beautiful, calm, tranquil. D’you see?

Nature to heal and restore the soul.

Healing plants.

Life giving water properties.

All the best of the Islamic faith, nurturing and healing and life restoring. Not what you read of when the extremists get hold of the faith; but Islam at its best, its basis. A place for nurturing and restoration.  D’you see?

And I want to cry out, to intervene.

We are being fed snippets of positive Islamic faith.  Were I to do the same with my Christian faith, I would be hounded down.

But it’s there in our culture each day.

The insidious, creeping takeover – whether it’s gay lifestyle, civil marriages, all faiths and none:

just as long as it isn’t Christian.

You can do what you like, say what you like, believe what you like – as long as it’s not Christian.

I gaze up at the The Crescent which dominates this beautiful garden.

And I don’t say a word.

My silence is my acquiessence.

What might Ann have said? http://www.aholyexperience.com/2012/06/what-in-the-world-should-christians-wear/

Why in the world don’t I say these words aloud to strangers more often? Why don’t I live them more clearly? I am ashamed of how many times, unlike the apostle Paul, I have been ashamed of the gospel, the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes (Romans 1:16)

And what are we really here to do but to live the Great Commission — not the Great Optional? 

WHAT WOULD YOU HAVE DONE?

OR SAID?

Or even thought?

Our Guide smiles.

- Your Champagne tea awaits. She points to the tea room.

And I gratefully flee.

BOOSTING ENERGY LEVELS

I am writing a daily blog (Monday to Friday probably!)  on preparing spiritually and physically

to lead a Pilgrimage of 100 miles in September.

for details of the Pilgrimage, click on the dropdown Cotwold Pilgrimage bar at the top of this page 

The inside of doors of the kitchen cupboards have notes and papers and info stuck randomly across their surface.

To remind me.

I never look at them; I’ve become too accustomed to their presence.

So this morning when an overnight house guest comments on them I see them through new eyes.

And pull them off and scrunch them up.  Decluttering is good, I tell myself.

But one catches the unseeing eye afresh: Boosting the energy levels.  I wonder when I first saw it or pinned it there as a reminder.  When my energy levels were low, lower than they appear to be now.

Probably last year sometime.

I scan the list: ten things to do.

-      get plenty of rest

-      exercise daily

-      drink lots of water

-      eat high energy foods

-      take a good multi-vitamin

-      feed your brain

-      maintain a positive attitude

-      watch your mouth

-      avoid people who deplete you

-      connect with God

It all sounds – admirable; do-able; good advice.

In practice I find a need a certain amount of energy in the first place to decide to do all this.

And maybe the order is upside down.

I shall start by connecting with God. After that everything else will probably fall into place.

It’s a good place to start.

My heart needs to connect with Him constantly.  This morning’s reading in Proverbs reminds me:

Above all, guard your heart for from it flow the springs of life. (4:23)

Yes.

The springs of life, energy levels, a sense of well-being, it all comes from the ONE who first breathed life into me and sustains me each day by His breath of life.

I’m off to get a glass of water.

And maybe have a nap – after I’ve done today’s 10,000 minimum steps.

Snowdrops

October 2010      Three weeks after The Day

There will be snowdrops again. There will be snowdrops again. I have to believe it. One day soon, the tiny tips will push through, struggling, light seeking, upward bound. First, there will be snow. Frost and freeze. Rain. Anything the elements can throw on a winter’s day. A test of patience, hope, belief. But for now, the bulb lies cold, deeply hidden, dormant.

So lies my soul.

A corpse, buried in winter snow. Buried within my cold cold body. Iced from within. I can see it from above, the rectangle of transparent ice surrounding all that is me.

It is hard to hear you through the ice. Impossible to reach out, touch you, feel your well-meant hug. This ice is brittle, sharp, so-very-cold. It forms a barrier.

Maybe that is my protection, for should the thaw come too soon I would feel too much.

So I will believe that snowdrops will come again. And one day One day My snowdrop soul will grow again a tiny tip of life.

For as [surely as] the earth brings forth its shoots, and as a garden causes what is sown in it to spring forth, so [surely] the Lord God will cause rightness and justice and praise to spring forth before all the nations [through the self-fulfilling power of His word].                                       Isaiah 61:11

Amplified Bible (AMP) © 1954, 1958, 1962, 1964, 1965, 1987 by The Lockman Foundation

Snowdrop (n): A.D. Miller

1. 1.     An early-flowering bulbous plant, having a white pendent flower.

2. Moscow slang. A corpse that lies buried or hidden in the winter snows, emerging only in the thaw.