Prayer and Puppies

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How does your personality and temperament impact your prayer life and the way in which you spend time with God?

This was a question I posed yesterday because it is an area I am beginning to explore. Personally I loved a silent 10 day retreat - but is that because I am by temperament introverted (Myers Briggs INTJ) or melancholic (Littauer) ? Were I an extrovert would I prefer a congregation of 10,000 loudly praising, singing, dancing? Or is it not as simple as that? So I have decided to do some more investigation - could this be an important step for you, for me, for those I work with as Spiritual Director or lead on Pilgimages and retreats? My first step was to email the Christian business Consultant who works with the staff at our church, and who is somewhat of an expert on the Myers Briggs method of personality testing. He has suggested two books: Pray Your Way by Bruce Duncan, an old book looking at types of prayer based on your Myers Briggs Indicator;  and  Your Personality and the Spiritual Life by Reginald Johnson, another older book whose subtitle says that Understanding who you are can deepen your relationship with God . Researching those led me on to Personality and Prayer, by Ruth Fowke which looks at finding and extending the prayer style which suits your  personality. So these books will soon be dropping on to my doormat and  hopefully helping me in this journey of investigation. And if you know of any other good resources might you let me know?  Thank you! And I will be blogging more about this - it so obviously is something that intrigues many of us, judging by the sheer volume of people looking at the post yesterday.

On an entirely different note , here's something we are really enjoying.  Take a look : it' s SO CUTE and will make you smile!

HOLLY'S HALF DOZEN

 

 

HELD IN THE PALM OF HIS HAND

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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 Cotswold Pilgrimage bar at the top of this page 

 

 

Might you be walking over the weekend? Strolling somewhere perhaps?

Maybe you might take a few moments to pray for someone?

Maybe someone who is struggling, or who is ill, or facing a difficulty.  Maybe someone you would just like to hold in prayer for no particular reason.

Someone you love.

Someone you met.

Someone the Lord brings to mind.

While you are out walking, pick up something you can easily carry in your hand – a sun warmed stone, a wild flower, a shell, a twig ……

Hold it.

Feel it.

Use it to remind you of the one for whom you are praying.

 

And maybe you pray aloud.

Maybe you pray internally.

Maybe there are no words but a silent holding of the person in your heart and your prayer.

 

When you are ready to release the prayer, the person, choose where to lay down what you  are carrying.

 

Knowing that the Lord continues to carry them in the palm of His hand.

 

 

 

WHERE TO RETREAT?

in ,

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 Cotswold Pilgrimage bar at the top of this page 

 

 

WHERE TO RETREAT?

I am often asked for recommendations of places to go in order to spend time alone with the Lord – places for retreat, where there is peace and quiet, beauty and solace.  Time to be, uninterrupted; maybe with a comfortable bed and a large bath. Not too expensive. Nearby.

And so on.  We each have our list of requirements.

Mostly, I am asked for places in Great Britain.

So I began to make a list.  It's below if you want to read it.

But I would love more input on this.

Where have you been on retreat?

Would you recommend it? Why?

What was good – or not-sot-good – about it?

What person might it suit?

What type of retreat might it be best for?

Was it relatively affordable?

What else can you tell us about it?

 

Here’s some suggestions of what I have already gathered;

for beauty and peace and quiet, I love and highly recommend Launde, Harnhill or St Beuno’s! And you? What's your favourite Retreat Centre?

 

Good resources:

http://www.eden.co.uk/directory/christian_retreats_10.html

http://www.retreats.org.uk/

LONDON

CITY

St Katherine, Limehouse, London

http://www.rfsk.org.uk/

Retreats and Quiet Days in the centre of London between the City and Canary Wharf with easy access to the West End. Residential/day

NORTH LONDON

The Guy Chester Centre, Muswell Hill

http://www.chestercentre.org.uk

Day/residential   Courses, retreats, workshops

 

EAST of ENGLAND

The Chelmsford Diocesan House of Retreat, Pleshey, Essex.

Near Stansted/Chelmsford

http://www.retreathousepleshey.com/

Retreats, courses.  Day/residential

 

Mulberry House, High Ongar

http://pastoralcentre.nationwidechristiantrust.com/pages/3.htm

Retreats, courses, healing prayer. Day/residential

CENTRAL

Pelagos

Latimer, Bucks

http://pelagos.co.uk/

good day centre for retreats, Spiritual Direction, Courses

 

Turvey Abbey, Beds

www.turveyabbey.org.uk

day /residential, for retreats, for prayer, for rest and relaxation

 

Buckend Towers, St Neots, Cambs

http://www.buckden-towers.org.uk/

Day/residential. Spiritual guidance available

 

LAUNDE ABBEY, Oakham, Rutland

http://www.laundeabbey.org.uk/

Day/residential. Courses, retreats

 

WEST

HARNHILL,  Cirencester, Glos

http://www.harnhillcentre.org.uk/centre.htm

Residential/day. Emphasis on Healing prayer

SOUTH

The Emmaus Centre, West Wickham, Kent

http://www.emmauscentre.org.uk

day/residential  Retreats

 

The Peshurst Retreat Centre, Nr Battle, E Sussex

http://www.penhurst-retreat-centre.org.uk/

day/residential  Retreats,prayer,counselling

 

WALES

 

NORTH WALES

St Beuno’s nr St Asaph, Snowdonia

http://www.beunos.com/

Residential Ignatian centre: retreats, Direction, prayer

 

PEMBROKESHIRE

Ffald-y-brenin, Fishguard

http://www.ffald-y-brenin.org/

Residential/day. Retreats,prayer

 

 

SO: your comments and suggestions please!

 

 

 

 

The LOCUST YEARS

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I will restore to you the years the locusts have eaten (Joel 2:25):

A Guest Post by Penelope Swithinbank

I was really honoured and excited to be asked to write a guest post for Anita Matthias on her blog spot

http://dreamingbeneaththespires.blogspot.com/

 

Here it is again in case you missed it

I can remember how it felt – that walking across the Square, arms stretched long with shopping bags.

 

I can remember how it felt  - that looking at our church, heart stretched hard and cold with unbelief.

 

I can remember: before coming to that church the years of losing everything – the business I had started, homes and cars and income, all lost; the worldly stuff I had held so dearly, gone.  Taken by God, vindictively it seemed.But then came this church.  Its large draughty  Victorian Rectory. My life turned upside down and not in the way I wanted. For I had enjoyed my status: 20th century vicar’s wives did not usually head up their own nationwide company.

 

Gone. All gone.

 

I was tired, so tired of it all.

 

* * *

 

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

 

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

 

Their prayers for me, surrounding me. My tears falling.  Shaking with the overwhelming sense of His being with me.

One stood back, pondered, allowed Him to speak through her voice.

 

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

 

They prayed some more. He took those words deep into that cold stretched heart. He promised restoration, things that would replace what was lost, devoured and devastated.

 

A swarm of things new and above what was lost.

 

So I clung to that verse over the years that were to come. Years with ups and downs, but years of fruitful ministry just as He had promised. A book was published, an international speaking gift confirmed, a ministry ordained. The years lost through unbelief were more than made up for.

 

Always I remembered that verse. He had restored the years the locusts had eaten – and more.

 

* * *

 

And then.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

She was gone.

 

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

 

I took the watch and turned to thank the paramedics and the police and the passersby.  People were so kind; so very kind.

 

But I was frozen.

 

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

 

But now.

 

A slow greening of tiny shoots again.

 

A decision to be grateful in the brokenness.*

A monthly Happiness Project.+

 

And confirmation from He whom my soul loves, that what has yet again been devoured by locusts will be restored to me.

The verse remembered.

 

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

 

He promised.  And there was the verse, my verse: on Anita’s tweet. Her invitation on February 29 to write a guest blog.  And on March 1st an offer of a freelance writing project – very small but it’s writing and it’s paid! Unsought, it brought with it His Voice of Promise: I will restore to you the years the locusts have eaten.

 

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

 

He who has promised is faithful and He will do it. Again and again, whenever it is needed:

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

 

 

*  One Thousand Gifts. Ann Voskamp. Zondervan

+ A Happiness Project. Gretchen Rubin. Harper

 

 

http://dreamingbeneaththespires.blogspot.com/search?updated-max=2012-03-06T00:18:00-08:00

Living Legacy

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Fitzroy Square. Cream buildings, a veritable heritage.

Leaves swirling, greyly autumn.

Blue plaques on walls to mark the homes of famous men and women.

I look and read and try to imagine this or that person living in this space, looking out of that window, watching these trees shed their leaves. A blue plaque as living legacy, reminder of who they were, what they did, the length of their stay.

And I think of my legacy. What will I leave? Who would want to remember me?

My children, offspring from our marriage, carried in my heart and on my hip for so  long, and now carried simply in my heart -  as they carry their own on hip and in heart.

They will remember.  But what will they remember; and their children, my  grandchildren, and perhaps their children too.  What will they remember of me? What  will they remember me for?

And the only thing I want for my legacy is that it should be my prayers for them.  Prayers reaching down through the generations, unto the third and fourth generation. To pray for my children, for their children and their children’s children.  For them and their spouses and their children’s children to be those who love the Lord, who live for  Him and give their all for Him.

I think of my legacy; and think, hope, pray, that it’s not too late, that there is time for the prayer to continue and to reach forward into the future, their future.

So I slow down, walking more slowly, taking time to look at the blue plaques, praying for those precious descendants. And I want more time; time to pray. I want time to slow and allow me moments more in prayer, moments to talk to my offspring, to tell them what’s really important to me. To whisper His story to my grandchildren and great-grandchildren, tell them of the Lord’s great love for them and of mine too, a shadow of His.

My footsteps carry me on and Fitzroy Square is behind.  I quicken, conscious of dawdling, hurrying once again to the time-busyness of busy London around me. Yet deep inside I know: my legacy has time to deepen and develop.  I need not hurry on.  This one race is not the one I want to win – there’s no prize for being the first over the finishing line of life.

Instead, God grant me the time to pray it forward, tell it to my descendants, live it out the best I can for them.

“And I will pour out my Spirit on your descendants,
and my blessing on your children.
They will thrive like watered grass,
like willows on a riverbank.
 Some will proudly claim, ‘I belong to the Lord.’
 Others will say, ‘I am a descendant of Jacob.’
 Some will write the Lord’s name on their hands
 and will take the name of Israel as their own.”         ISAIAH 44:3-5 (NLT)

Tenth anniversary of 9/11

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Try praying says the banner.

It blows in the wind which blows the people and the sounds and the smells of fast-food-side-stalls.

Try praying.

Prayer before anything else or there won’t be anything else.

So why did I not pray?

Why could I not pray?

9/11 and a daughter missing.

A phone call abruptly cut off as a Tower collapsed.

Her scream and the line going dead.

Hours of not knowing.

Manhattan had swallowed my daughter.

An eighteen year old daughter and her second day at work.

I could not pray.

I could worry.

I could cry.

I could cling to my family.

But I could not pray.

Words would not come.

Shock took over.

And then friends prayed.  Friends there, friends here.  Friends nearby and friends far away. Friends with comforting arms outstretched.

I felt cut off.  Longing to be back in England because America was closed down. Stranded. But not wanting to leave my daughter.

Wherever she was, however she was.

Try praying.

But sometimes prayer is impossible. Its words will not come. I am stranded – on a mat stranded, unable to help myself.  I need carrying friends, friends who will bring me to the feet of Jesus.

Ten years ago I could not pray.

A year ago I could not pray.

A daughter restored but a mother dead.

I need carrying friends. Praying friends. Friends who care.

And then -

I am a carrying friend

a praying friend

For you.  To Jesus.

Try praying.

For she who needs your prayer.

For he who cannot pray.

Have you tried?

Tried today?

Have I?

A Twelve Month Journey Begins

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September 23, 2011 A year ago, my mother died. Swept away, the one person who had known me, carried me, kept me close to her heart. The one who was always there for me, urging me on, supporting me in my crazy schemes; who nursed my children, prayed for them night and day, held their teenage confidences when I could not. The one who adored her great grandchildren and prayed for them too.  One moment she was there, a feisty ninety-year-young who cared ceaselessly for others, drove old ladies to church, talked non-stop on the phone to her friends and family whenever she could.

And the next she was gone.

Swept away by an out-of-control driver who could not, would not, stop.

And I stood there frozen, helpless, unbelieving; stunned from having been hit by the same car just a few minutes before.  Stunned now by what I was seeing; not understanding, not believing.

Deafened by the shouts and the screams of the passers-by.  Deafened by the sirens. Deafened by the silent scream inside.

Maybe I should have cried.

Maybe I too should have screamed.

But I kept it inside. And my tears turned to ice and my scream was frozen deep within.

At first, I thought of the hours and days she would have of convalescence; of how she would battle to walk again and fight for her independence. I looked at her face, ground into the road; at the white broken bone protruding from her leg; and her outflung arm, clawing frozenly at the tarmac. My heart froze too.

Then came the helicopter crash team; they rolled her over and their scissors ripped her clothes and their drips penetrated her body  -  and  I knew.  I knew.

They pumped and pushed and did their best.  But she was gone.

I stood at her feet and asked for her to be covered; I could not bear to see her naked chest.  They pulled the blanket to her chin; and I tried to pray for her, aloud.  Tried to thank God for all she was and had been to me and others; tried to ask Him to take her to Himself; committed her to the One who loved her the best.

And the paramedic had tears in her eyes.  “I’ve never heard anyone pray out loud before,” she said.  “Would you like her teeth? And her watch?”

I took the watch and turned to thank the paramedics and the police and the passersby.  People were so kind; so very kind.

But I was frozen.