Share in his sufferings?

 ENTERING HOLY WEEK

Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!

HOSANNAH! HOSANNAH! HOSANNAH! HOSANNAH IN THE HIGHEST HEAVEN.

And we turn west.

Golden sunlight of evening streams in.

The choir, ranked under the West Window,  raise their palm leaves and lift their voices.

It's magical. Profound.

Hosanna to the Son of David.

Blessed be the King

That cometh in the name of the Lord.

Hosanna.

Thou that sitteth in the highest heavens.

Hosanna in excelsis Deo.

And so we come, to remember Christ entering the city  - to suffer, to die

and to rise again.

We want to unite in His sufferings

and share His risen life.

Do I?

Do I want to unite in His sufferings?

The next bit, yes - to share His risen life.  Count me in.

But to share in His sufferings?

I listen to the collect for Palm Sunday:

Almighty and everliving God, in your tender love for the human race you sent your Son our Saviour Jesus Christ to take upon him our nature, and to suffer death upon the cross, giving us the example of his great humility: Mercifully grant that we may walk in the way of his suffering, and also share in his resurrection; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

I am not sure I can say the amen, the 'I agree' bit.

I stand and listen in awe as the procession moves to the sound of a small drum, mediaeval music:

Bless-ed Israel's King, they cry;

Bless-ed is He that cometh nigh

in name of God the Lord most high - Hosanna in the highest!

A Bible is carried to the lectern, to remind us of Christ the Teacher.

We give thanks for His Word, a lantern to our feet, a light to our paths, a strength to our lives.

Take us and use us to love and serve

in the power of the Holy Spirit

and in the name of your Son,

Jesus Christ our Lord.

Yes, I can pray that. Amen.

Teach me O Lord the way of your statutes and I will observe it to the end.

Give me understanding that I may keep your law and observe it with my whole heart.

See, I have longed for your precepts;  in your righteousness give me life.

(from Psalm 119)

Amen and Amen.

The choir and the clergy  process to the East end and a loaf of bread and a flask of wine are placed on the Altar.

We follow, we the people, drawing near to remind ourselves that Christ is our Sustainer.

We adore you, O Christ, and we bless you, because with your precious blood you have redeemed the world. 

Have mercy on us.

Amen and Amen.

There is silence.  Thank you, Lord, for sustaining me, even me. Day after day.

Father of all, we give you thanks and praise

that when we were still far off

you met us in your Son and brought us home....

May we who share Christ's body live His risen life..

Amen and Amen.

The next procession is small.

Silent.

The Crown of Thorns, carried to the crossing.  Christ the Victim.

Silence.

Look on His face, come close to Him

see - you will find no beauty there:

despised, rejected, who can tell

the grief and sorrow He must bear?

For on His shoulders God has laid

 the weight of sin that we should bear;

                                                                                          so by His passion we have peace,

                                                                                         through His obedience and His prayer.

Bruckner's motet rises to the fan vaulting:

Christus factus est pro nobis obediens 

usque ad mortem, mortem autem cruces ...

(Philippians 2: 8-9) 

Amen and Amen.

And we pray a Litany - Lord, have mercy.

We stand with Christ in His sufferings.

For forgiveness for the many times we have denied Jesus, 

let us pray to the Lord.

Lord have mercy.

Amen and Amen.

The final procession.

The Rector, sombre now in black cassock alone, raises high the large simple cross. Walks slowly from the Altar down through the choir stalls. Stands at the crossing, swaying slightly under the weight of the tall wood.

We stand in silence. Reflection. Awe.

Remembering.

They rise and needs will have

my dear Lord made away;

a murderer they save,

the Prince of LIfe they slay.

Yet cheerful He

to suffering goes

that He His foes 

from thence might free.

It's sung quietly, reverently. This is My Friend, in whose sweet praise I all my days could gladly spend.

Amen and Amen.

Standing still, still. The silence.

The evening sun has dimmed and now the Abbey lights are dimmed too. It's not yet dark, but the darkness is all around.

My harp is tuned for lamentation and my flute to the voice of those who weep. Spare me O Lord, for my days are as nothing.

The voices, the choir, the clergy, silently and slowly move away, out into the twilight. Palms have been shed, lying tight packed at the foot of the wooden cross. The Crown of Thorns hangs there.

As I too pass silently by, my mind ruminates on that phrase again.

To share in His sufferings.

I shrink from that.

And hear His voice - not spoken, not aloud.  But His voice none the less.

My Grace is sufficient.

Amen and Amen.

Jesus, by your wounded feet,

direct our path aright.

Jesus, by your nailed hands,

move ours to deeds of love.

Jesus, by your pierced side,

cleanse our desires.

Jesus, by your crown of thorns,

annihilate our pride.

Jesus, by your silence,

shame our complaints

Jesus, by your parched lips, 

curb our cruel speech.

Jesus, by your closing eyes,

look on our sin no more.

Jesus, by your broken heart,

knit ours to you.

And by this sweet and saving sign,

Lord draw us to our peace.

AMEN.

HOCKNEY AND THE SEASONS

THREE TREES IN SEASON  

We met in the archway.  Swept past the waiting crowds, joined the queue inside.

Headed for the stairs - another long line.

But then we were in. Swept with the people into a room of vast canvas, brilliant blinding colour, trees.

Three trees.

I stare at the spring of the trees.

Look with the artist through the blossom to the greening.

Feel it coming alive with new hope.

Freshly.

Greenly.

Scent the new grass growing.

Feel the life, the hope, the returning.

It’s my picture. I stand and stare, unable to take in all that it promises. This.

This is what I am here for, what I am meant to see. That there is hope. Life springs out again.

And again.

And again.

At the scent of water which I can see  - it has already rained and everything is fresh and new-sprung.

There is hope for a tree: If it is cut down, it will sprout again, and its new shoots will not fail. Its roots may grow old in the ground and its stump die in the soil, yet at the scent of water it will bud and put forth shoots like a plant. (Job 14:7-9)

People pass in front of me, obscuring the view. I sigh and turn to view the next.

It is Three Trees.  Again.

I swing.

Three Trees.

And again.

Three Trees.

spring summer autumn winter.

And oh yes.

Yes, yes.  My seasons. That’s where I WAS.

Winter, stark, bare, frozen.

Devoid of signs of life.

Cold and unfeeling.  Cut down.

But now.

Now there is spring and the life.

And the promise of this next – summer.

Full growth.

Thick luxury of life in all its fullness. Bold glorious colour.

Verdant. ALIVE

If winter come, can spring be far behind? And then a summer’s lease.

And knowing that one day will be the autumn of my life.

But for now, I am content to be in spring time.

Anticipating the summer yet to come.

* * * *

I have to move on. There is more to see.

I long to view the trees again and hunt in the shop for postcards.

Only two – winter and spring. But they meant the most.

We go to lunch. She hands me the heavy bag. ‘For you.’

It is the whole book of paintings. I gasp.

All four are there.

The book stays open on my table. At spring.

Soon it will be summer.  It’s been painted, it will come.

Each season in its time.

And you?

What season are you in for now?

Ecclesiastes 3

A Time for Everything

    1 There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven:

    2  a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot,

    3 a time to kill and a time to heal, a time to tear down and a time to build,

    4 a time to weep and a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance,

    5 a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them, a time to embrace and a time to refrain,

    6 a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away,

    7 a time to tear and a time to mend, a time to be silent and a time to speak,

    8 a time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.

SPRING SONG OF THE BIRDS

 

Liltingly it drifts on the gentle breeze.

The spring song of the birds.

In hedgerows, from treetops, under bushes tipped palely green. They sing trill whistle call chirp, tiny feathers ruffled in the air.   The symphony crescendos, wafts away on the wind, floats back.

Happiness sounds in each note.

I stand still the better to hear it. Something in me responding, lifted by this music.

These birds sing because they have songs in them to release. Notes to utter. It is the best thing that they can do, to sing right now. To sing because.

And their music is balm, soothingly uplifting. Deafening in its persistence.

And so I too sing. Trill and chirp and tweet within my soul. And the song becomes MY song, the attitude of my heart. Inexpressible, uplifting, known only unto God. So it changes me.

I have listened.

I have sung.

I will remember.

Remember your Creator in the days of your youth, before the days of trouble come and the years approach when you will say, “I find no pleasure in them”— before the sun and the light and the moon and the stars grow dark,….. when people rise up at the sound of birds, but all their songs grow faint.                  Ecclesiastes 12:1,2,4

THE SONG OF THE BIRD

The disciples were full of questions about God.

Said the Master, “God is Unknown, the Unknowable. Every statement about Him, every answer to your questions, is a distortion of the Truth.”

The disciples were bewildered. “Then why do you speak about Him at all?”

“Why does the bird sing?” said the Master.


Not because he has a statement, but because he has a song.

The words of the Scholar are to be understood. The words of the Master are not to be understood. They are to be listened to as one listens to the wind in the trees and the sound of the river and the song of the bird.

They will awaken something within the heart that is beyond all knowledge.

 - Anthony de Mello S. J.

WOMEN CLERGY IN THE USA

The Lord works in mysterious ways - not sure why He so often surprises me, I should be used to it by my age but I never am!  

Last summer I began to pray and think and plan about a new

phase of ministry that I felt the Lord was putting on my heart:

to enable small communities of ordained women/women in

full time Christian ministry to support one another regularly.

I sent out invites for this April to some 40 USA women clergy;

and I think 2 or maybe 3 responded.

So I thought maybe the timing was not right .. or I had misheard

the Lord … or there was no perceived need after all.

And then, just this past 10 days, I have had messages from

5 or 6 saying when is it, can we come, are you full up yet.

I guess the Lord knows what we need and when we need it!!

So, we are indeed going ahead, and the details are below.

DO COME!

Please let me know if you can as soon as possible

so that I can go ahead and make all the arrangements. I am

SO excited to think that we may soon be able to support one

another in this way and deepen and strengthen our ministries.

Numbers are limited to just 8 so you do need to get back to me

ASAP if you want to book. It would be such a privilege to have

you as part of a small group who want to be in Spirit-filled prayer

for one another and be mentored as women clergy in leadership.

May I ask you to be in prayer with me to seek the Lord's

guidance as to whether this is for you.

RE-CREATION   RE-FRESHMENT   RE-TREAT   RE-NEW

WHAT:

We want to form small communities of about 8 women.

Each community will meet together twice a year,

for 48 hours, under my leadership and chaplaincy.

We will have time to get to know one another, support

one another in prayer, and have “Round-table time” when

we can discuss things where we need help, and to learn

from one another.

And then, in the months in between meeting together,

the prayer and support will continue via phone, Skype etc,

so that there really is a network of support and community

with others who understand. But mostly, we want to pray

for one another, and have unhurried time to do this.

Some of the issues which have already been mentioned are: 

-    isolation:

• working for wonderful but male Rectors
• not geographically near to other women clergy
• unable to pray through or talk about some issues with a male Rector

-   criticism

• after preaching out one’s heart, the comments are often along the lines of “Did you know your jacket clashed

with the color of the carpet in church?” (for those who don’t wear robes!)   or “Your bracelet caught the lights and glittered and put me off”

• after administering communion: “I don’t like to take communion from hands with chipped nail varnish!”

• the old issues of women in leadership, male headship, ordination of women

• disbelief that a woman could be called into the ordained ministry, and questioning of the calling

-   stress

• unable to take time off without feeling we are letting people down if not available for 24 hours!

• Trying to be pastor, wife AND mother – pulled between church and family

• feeling guilty about spending money on haircuts or new shoes or whatever

• Wanting to get away for a few days of retreat and time with other women but not knowing where to go or with whom.

WHERE

The first group is SOON!.  We will arrive during the

evening on Sunday April 29, in time for supper;

and we will depart late afternoon on Tuesday May 1. 

 

The Retreat will be on the beautiful barrier island of

Seabrook, just south of Charleston, South Carolina.

We will stay in a quiet, private home on the lagoon,

near the glorious beach (there will be time for walking

on the beach, watching the dolphins & pelicans …)

MORE PHOTOS ARE BELOW!

Accommodation will be 2 people per room (separate beds!)

each room has a private bathroom.  All meals are provided, unlimited tea and coffee, wine with evening meals.

For details see http://www.homeaway.com/vacation-rental/p178296

and yes, it's our home!  

The cost for this Retreat is $165.  All you need to bring is yourself, a toothbrush and a Bible!! (is that very British humour?? All linens are provided)

Booking is via email, and payment will be

invoiced using the secure Paypal online so you can pay

either with credit card or e-check very easily.

LIMITED to just 8 so please book very soon

If you'd like to find about a bit more about me, check

out my website and blog:

www.ministriesbydesign.org

WHAT OTHERS HAVE SAID:

“I LOVE your idea and sense of calling.  As someone who benefits from knowing you and learning from you as a friend and mentor, I know firsthand how needed this is and how it is currently lacking.  So, for you to have a sense of coming into this ‘void’ is wonderful."

"The practical ideas you set out are great.  I especially like the idea of a retreat and phone calls. Community is so important.  And feeling connected to women one feels like one relates to is equally important (as we both know).  And I know my Rector and his wife will be supportive since this is one of the #1 things he keeps encouraging me to seek out — women mentors! “

Bishop Todd Hunter, The Anglican Mission:-

“Penelope is one of the finest priests I know—not “female” priest, but just “priest”. God has seen fit to combine in her high character, deep piety and a broad gift-mix. This combination makes her a wonderful guide and retreat leader for both current leaders and those who feel called to ministry. I sincerely commend Penelope and her work.”

Susan Alexander Yates, author and speaker:-

“If you are looking for a speaker who is both biblically solid and personally relevant, you have a treat in store with Penelope Swithinbank. She makes the scriptures come alive while at the same time she speaks to the real needs of women today. Her style, which is classy and elegant, appeals to thoughtful women who long for substance.”     

The decking and the hammock overlooking our lagoon - space for retreat and quiet!

              

WE MATTER

She is just a few hours old.  My youngest. January 1983

“The year and month and day you are born matters. The very moment you are born matters. To matter in the scheme of the cosmos: this is better theology than all our sociology. It is in fact all that God has promised to us: that we matter. That He cares. God knows the very moment we are born.” – Madeleine L’Engle

And isn’t that what we crave, that feeling that we matter?

That we matter to someone.

Mean something special. Because we are different, special, unique. Ourselves and not someone else.

We need to know that we matter.

From the moment of my birth, I mattered. To my mother.

I became her raison d’etre, and we went everywhere together. She was my north, my south, my east, my west. As I was hers.

For a year or so. And then I grew, became independent, fought against her often.

Teenage angst and a strong desire to leave home.

“But where, after we have made the great decision to leave the security of childhood and move on into the vastness of maturity, does anyone ever feel completely at home?” – Madeleine L’Engle

She was always there for me. At home, waiting for me, welcoming me home with arms stretched wide, no matter what. I mattered.

She always carried me: in her body, then in her arms, then in her heart.

I was one of the fortunate ones: a mother who cared, who loved almost unconditionally. Loved enough to discipline strongly.

Tough mother love.

She showed me God. Showed me that I matter to Him.

And though she is not here to be my home, my anchor, she has left me her legacy:

I am mother to my own children. Grandmother to their children.

And now I too love and care and am a home.

And need to show them God.

That they matter to Him and to me.

For You formed my inward parts; You wove me in my mother’s womb. 
14 I will give thanks to You, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made; 
Wonderful are Your works, 
And my soul knows it very well. 
15 My frame was not hidden from You, 
When I was made in secret, 
And skillfully wrought in the depths of the earth; 
16 Your eyes have seen my unformed substance; 
And in Your book were all written 
The days that were ordained for me, 
When as yet there was not one of them.     Psalm 139

My younger sister, my mother & me.  On Mummy's 90th birthday

PODGY PENNY

 

'Morning, Penny, nice to see you!

She charged past me in the church side aisle, intent on delivering small fry to children’s ministry.

Did my face show any emotion?

I could barely choke out an answer.

It happens every time.  Every time I am called Penny.  That rising bilious feeling. The denial of the name. A refusal to allow it to define me.

Podgy Penny.

That’s who I was. A small round personage, chubby, filled with a desire to please:

Good girls eat everything on their plates. Waste not want not. Anything left and you will have it for breakfast.  The starving children in Africa would be grateful for that. We can’t afford to waste food.

I ate.

And ate.

My mother was proud of the name she had given me.  Penelope Jane. She had chosen it long before she met and married my father, for it was the name of someone she admired, an older woman in the office where my mother worked when she was evacuated in the war.

A tall, elegant woman, I was always told. Beautiful.  I know nothing more about her. But when I arrived, I was given her name.

I was born on my maternal grandmother’s 70th birthday. Your present, my mother told her: one penny. And so the diminutive became the norm. Penny.

And Penny was a good girl. Penny ate what was put in front of her. And so Penny grew. And grew and grew. Round as well as up.

My father was fond of me, I know. But at the church jumble sale I well remember him auctioning me. I was four years old. Lifted on to the White Elephant stall.  Who will give me one penny for this Penny? he cried.  They laughed at their young curate and volunteered their pennies for his Podgy Penny.  I raised a lot of money that day as they turned out their purses and donated their pennies in my honour for the church funds.

(It was a VERY long time ago; pennies were worth a lot more then)

I was mortified. I was worth a mere Penny.

But  Topsy -like, I grewed. The friends at Primary School called me Podgy Penny too.

Children can be so cruel sometimes.

But then we got a dog and I discovered a love of walking with her. And I had a bicycle for a birthday and discovered a love of riding with the wind in my hair and a sense of freedom.

Exercise. And my legs grew faster than anything else.  Suddenly I was the tallest person in the school. Still slightly podgy but still growing.

Nicknames stick however.  Maybe - especially -  within families.

But as my early thirties approached, I made a decision. No longer was I Penny.  I would be tall and elegant, the full Penelope Jane.  So I simply refused to answer if called Penny.

Whether my husband or my mother, my friends or my colleagues, all had to relearn me by a new name.

Penelope.

My birth name.  My baptismal name.

Me.

And as I changed from Podgy Penny to Penelope, I tried to shrug off those feelings of inadequacy and worthlessness.  Learned the story of a faithful, long suffering Penelope who sewed and embroidered and remained true.

Became a little more like the Penelope I was meant to be.

My name is Penelope.

I am not Podgy Penny.

And I do not have to eat everything. (But that is another story)

* * *

God gives us new names.   He gave Israel a new name, just as he had to Abram and to Sarai.

The nations will see your vindication,

   and all kings your glory;

you will be called by a new name

   that the mouth of the LORD will bestow.  (Isaiah 62:2)

And one day, we will each have a new name.

Anyone with ears to hear must listen to the Spirit and understand what he is saying to the churches. To everyone who is victorious I will give some of the manna that has been hidden away in heaven. And I will give to each one a white stone, and on the stone will be engraved a new name that no one understands except the one who receives it. (Revelation 2:17)

A new name, given by the Lord and known to Him and to the one to whom He gives it.  A new secret nickname: it’s what the Father names His child, and it’s known to just the two of them.

That speaks to me of such intimacy. Such love.

It contrasts so strongly with the uncertainness of this life  -  its nicknames, its hurts. Its imperfectness, its misunderstandings.

Where  sometimes I am unsure even of my own identity.

I will be known by my Heavenly Father, called by His name for me, as He whispers to me what He has written on the white stone.

Just for me.

A new name.

I am so excited!

What will my new name be?

He knows. He knows.

Just as He knows me already through and through –

His Penelope.

Now we see things imperfectly, like puzzling reflections in a mirror, but then we will see everything with perfect clarity. (face to face) All that I know now is partial and incomplete, but then I will know everything completely, just as God now knows me completely.             (1 Corinthians 13:12)

BEING SO FOREIGN

Istanbul

Rain brushed my cheeks in the soft darkness of this nearly Eastern  city.

Strange sights and sounds assailed my ears. Scents of roasted meats, unknown herbs and spices, even different cleaning fluids, gave the night air a delicious fragrance.

I laughed delightedly. Clung to my husband’s arm. Stared wide eyed at the demonstration marching ahead of us up the İstiklâl Caddesi. Participants cheered and shouted, banged their drums, waved the banners high. A large group of young people, determined and vociferous, trying to make some point known to the rest of the world.

We dived down a side passage, unable to find space for our feet among the demonstrators. Unexpectedly found an old flower market, now full of restaurants. Were virtually dragged inside one by the persistent doorman, delighted to share his knowledge of England with us.

Turkish lira from our pockets were carefully counted. Just enough left for fresh grilled fish, baked aubergines, glasses of white wine.

What is the demonstration, we asked. He chortled at our ignorance. International Women’s Day. I raised my glass.

We laughed aloud at the adventure as the gypsy musicians loudly played over us. Commented on the dancing at a nearby bar. Savoured the flavours assaulting our senses.

Then back into the night air. Saw a tiny passage full of bars and locals. Turned into this one, twisted into that one, followed the sounds and the smells and the sights.

Emerged into a large modern square, full of police cars and deflated demonstrators. Realised we were lost, pulled out the map. Old eyes dimly perceived very little in the darkness. This square? That one?

Demonstrators dispersing. A home made white banner, pronouncing in large black wobbly letters: Women are not for decoration,  coming nearer, wavering over us, suddenly folded away.

Are you lost? asked its polite bearer, a young good looking Turk. He smiled at our ignorance, showed us our bearings, informed us it was too dangerous to walk back to the hotel, several miles away across the Golden Horn.  Did we look uncertain?

Come, he said. I show you the bus. My friend live in Plymouth. Nice city.

We followed him, high on the sense of adventure. He dodged the cars, stopped the traffic, waved us over, gestured to the waiting buses. This, he said. But wait, I get you ticket, I pay. We remonstrated, showed our remaining lira. He laughed, waved a card at a machine, ushered us on the bus. Enjoy your ride, please I help. Good riding. Like to help. Good night.

The bus lurched away, dimly lit. Ancient eyes peered again at the map, wondering how would we know which stop was the one he’d underlined. What did it say? The lettering was too small.

Please. A pretty young woman leaned forward. What you want? Where you go? She counted stops, waved us off the bus. An old man stepped off too, waved again. That way, he said as we deliberated in the traffic.

The kindness of strangers, young and old. Their politeness to foreigners. He PAID for us, we said. HE PAID.

I thought of the song my father loved: It’s being so foreign that makes them so bad - The English, the English, the English are best, I wouldn't give tuppence for all of the rest. (Flanders & Swann)

 And thought again of the verses I have read in the mornings so recently.

You are to love those who are foreigners, for you yourselves were foreigners in Egypt. The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt. I am the LORD your God.*

Those young people were probably Muslim. If anything. They were certainly Turkish. And we must have seemed so old and crazy to them.

But they have taught me so much.

* Deuteronomy 10:19  Leviticus 19:34
.

The LOCUST YEARS

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: 20^th 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 1^st 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

THE SECRET GARDEN

I pick it up.  A large, beautiful, Folio edition, green bound and illustrated. Caress it, remember it, wondering where is the copy I read as a child?

Maybe a daughter has it on her shelves – or more likely in her boxes hidden in our attic cupboards. So I lift the unread copy from my shelf, and begin to read, in readiness for the first gathering of we who have decided to read children’s books for fun.

The heroine: Mary Lennox.  A sickly, wan, sticky sort of girl, one who stamps her feet and shouts. I remember disliking her intensely. And feeling she did not deserve to be rescued.

Who does?

Then there was Dickon.  Almost too perfect, knowing so much at the tender age of 12. Free to roam the moors. An animal charmer. Lover of fresh air and gardening.

And Colin. Scary Colin in that scary house.  A secret, hidden down long corridors. He, it, frightened me. Deliciously. Tapestries and rich hangings, four poster beds and heaps of cushions. Chamber maids and house maids, cooks and gardeners. Way out of my experience.

I liked the robin best. He knew where the key was hidden. And Martha.  Not that I could understand much of what she said, but I learnt, along with Mary.

And like Mary, too, I learnt about the Magic.

To the child who was me it seemed quite natural and almost romantic: positive thoughts pushing up along with the crocuses and daffodils, making everything all right again – Colin and his not-so-twisted back, Mr Craven and his despairing, traumatised sadness, Mary and her loneliness.

In the secrets of the garden, everything comes alive, nature and people alike, and spiritual and physical healing is experienced as the beloved roses begin to bloom again.

And they all lived happily ever after. Or so I assumed.

So now, I begin to read it all again. And this time there is sadness and sympathy for those poor lost ill-tempered children.

Admiration for Martha’s mother.

Amazement that the staff stick around.

And compassion and empathy, oh, so much empathy, for bereaved, crazed Mr Craven, travelling to escape, travelling to forget.

I race through the book, devouring pages, staying up late to read.  After sixteen months of not remembering much of anything read, I find I am captivated and able to recall so much of what was read as a child.  A child of ten, maybe eleven.  Primary School, certainly.

I knew little of what I now see.

The emotional bruising and scarring of adults and children alike in this Craven/Lennox family.  A fallen world.

Madness and loneliness and death and bereavement, all mixed up and changing those affected. Like me.

The ‘earth-mother-ish-ness’ and healing ways of Mrs Sowerby, Dickon and Martha’s mother. Is she a Mary figure?

Dickon as a young St Francis, with animals his constant companions.

And the garden itself, the archytypal paradise of the Garden of Eden, bringing healing to those who find it.

But now, as I read, I wonder about the author and my curiosity searches.  And I learn of this young Englishwoman from nineteenth century industrial Manchester, emigrating to rural Tennessee, scribbling to supplement the family income in the aftermath of the American Civil War.

Of her unhappy marriage.

Her own illnesses.

The death of her son from consumption.

Her divorce.

Her success as a writer, giving her financial freedom to return to England and rent a large country house – with a walled garden.

And her spiritual journey, her adherence to Theosophy, Christian Science, Mind Healing.

I’m glad I now know more.  But I’m glad too that I could read it both as child and adult with the glorious anticipation that all would come right, that there would be healing and joy again.

And so there can be.

We need the Holy Spirit, winged and red-fire, to point the way.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.

Romans 15:13, NKJV

Re:FRESH Re:NEW Re:TREAT

A DAY FOR RETREAT

ideas for what to do!

Sometimes (often, most of the time)  I need rest – physical, emotional, yes, but mostly spiritual time away from normal everyday busy-ness.  I need to make time for meeting with God over a longer period, time for spiritual renewal and self-examination.  In Jesus’ time, long walks were part of everyday life – when one could presumably reflect and pray and think, although it was probably no easier than it is now! Jesus certainly 'drew aside' from everything for quiet moments, often climbing the hillside to do so. And so I need to build in times of quiet, times of enjoying God’s creation.  At least once a year (and three or four or five times is better!) it helps if I go to a place of quiet and beauty and just BE.

If you've never done this before, it may be strange at first. Maybe start with just a few hours – a half day; or maybe only an hour for the very first time. Start small and keep adding. Don’t wait until you feel you can take on a whole day or you may never begin!  And if after a while you have had enough, don’t feel guilty!  Either push on through to see what happens; or leave it there and try again another time. Or try something entirely different! These are just suggestions which I have personally found work for me and for many others; feel free to experiment!

PLANNING A DAY OR HALF DAY RETREAT

PLANNING: there’s the start. If I don't plan, it doesn't happen! I have to PLAN when to do this and write down the date and time, and the place, otherwise I'll procrastinate and never start. Then I begin to look forward eagerly to this special time, asking the Lord already to meet with me and refresh and renew me.

SUGGESTIONS TO TAKE: Bible, journal, pen; family photos or special momentoes; Praise worship (CD, iPod, etc) post card of a painting

-      I like to get away, head for the countryside, a retreat centre, a friend’s country cottage. If you can’t, make a special area at home with some of your favourite things, maybe a rocking chair, a large cushion, scented candles. Get it ready in advance and every time you pass be excited in anticipation! Check if you need to remove a ticking clock or anything else distracting.

-      When going away, it's good to get there the night before.  I love to have a long relaxing bubble bath and allow the cares and stresses to begin to slip away  and then retire early with a relaxing drink (Horlicks?!?!?!?! Camomile tea …) and I do love a hot water bottle at night!! Snuggling in, I read the Scriptures planned for tomorrow - but just read them, nothing else, and then put the light out early. Bliss!

1. Awake whenever – no alarm clock! And I don’t DO anything, for half an hour. Breakfast: taking a mug of steaming coffee and sitting on a sunny rock, or under a tree, or by a log fire and just sitting and BE-ing with God.

2. Then it's time for an extended praise and thanksgiving to God,  focusing on all the things I'm grateful for.  If I need a reminder or a prompt, I can ook at the photos and momentoes I brought with me and praise and thank God for what they each mean to me. Then a fun bit:  listing 10 things in my journal for which I'm grateful and thank God for each of them, with the focus on blessings, not problems. Then another 10 and thank Him; and another …. And so on.  Sometimes I will set myself a minimum, say 30 or 50 or …. And see where I end up!!!  No pleases, just thanks!

3. A Psalm, (Not a difficult one, but one of my favourites, such as praise one) and I read it out loud.  Slowly.  Twice.  Then I put the Bible down and reflect on it, maybe recall words or phrases that stood out or leaped at me, or meant something.  Then write them down.  Read aloud again – slowly. Maybe learn by heart one of the special verses. Write it down. Ask the Lord if He is saying something to me through it.

4. Then, and only then, I turn to either my normal daily Bible reading, or to a special Bible passage; or to a whole small book (eg Philemon or Jude) I can spend an hour or two on this:  read it aloud, slowly; relish the phrases; repeat it until the meanings truly sink in. Listening – letting God speak to me through it. Mark/write/record what happens. Was does it mean? Is there a promise, a command? Something I don’t understand which I can look up another time or ask someone about later?  Reflect and pray it through.

5. One of my favourite things is then to go for a long leisurely walk and enjoy an extended time of praise.  And when I am far away from civilisation and anyone who could possibly hear I sing praise songs aloud in the glories of creation (the psalmist recommends making a joyful NOISE to the Lord so then I don’t worry that I am  not an opera singer!!) Then I can envision God looking at me with love and walking beside me with His arm on my shoulder - like a friend accompanying me on the journey, in love. I either sing unaccompanied or I have some things on the iPod to sing along to.

6   Then and only then, either whilst out or on my return, I pray and write down my prayers. - for my family, my friends, my loved                      ones; for my self,  spiritually, emotionally, physically, socially, intellectually; God, when you look at me, what do you see? Lord                    how am I doing?  What do you want to change in me? I pray about my dreams, my challenges, my diary.

7. Enjoy a leisurely lunch at some point (or I may want to fast for the day) and listen to some worship music – of whatever type I prefer that day!

8. After lunch, I take a nap; rest and put my feet up. I do nothing for a while, with a cup of tea. I might look at a religious painting or a picture that speaks to me of God and meditate on it and put myself into it and allow the Lord to work in me through it.

9. I enjoy reading through the late afternoon -  a helpful but light book – maybe a Christian biography – a book which will bless, inspire, enthuse me.

10. Finally, almost regretfully, it's time to return home listening to my favourite Christian praise music .

Sometimes it's hard to return to the noise and bustle of home, family, pets, etc. But I know that often happens, and so I pray about it on my return journey, asking for grace and lots and lots of  patience, and for the fruit of the Spirit as my loved ones crowd around and normal life resumes. And I hope I remembered to make sure supper  was prepared either before I left or by someone else!

If you are returning to an empty dark flat, ask for the love of Jesus to be there to welcome you home, for His light to shine in the darkness and for His presence to surround you.

Finally, I remember to write the date in my diary for my next retreat.

© P Swithinbank

www.ministriesbydesign.org

@minstriesbydsgn

FINDING FUN

The book stared back at me. Dared me to pick it up. Buy it, even.

It’s blue – always a favourite colour. And written on the front in large capitals:

START YOUR OWN HAPPINESS PROJECT – GUIDE INSIDE.

New year.

New me?

Can I ever feel HAPPY again?

Resigning from my beloved work in ordained ministry to concentrate on getting well again, emotionally, spiritually, physically.

Recovering from the dark heaviness of depression and post traumatic stress syndrome which has clung and clawed to my shoulders for sixteen months.

Removing the burden of the guilt of not working - a first step to accepting this major life change, this living with What. Happened. And. Cannot. Be. Undone.

And joy. Can I find joy again as I learn to give thanks and find the grace in each moment?

The book leaps into my hand. I start reading as we drive away.  I am hooked from the start, wanting to know if it’s possible for me too. Knowing I need to work out my own salvation because it is God at work in me.  So I begin. January.

But I read fast and furious, wanting to know next month and the one after; and the book tells of discerning what made its author happy when younger.

I am instantly eleven years old.  Gawky and geeky, losing the immense podgy penny-ness. Happy, cycling freely and fast; devouring books faster than my parents can buy them for me, scribbling stories of my own creating, racing with the dog along the beach.

That was me. That joyous little girl.  Where did she get so lost? Can she be refound in a new me?

Regroup. Remember. Reform.

What counts is whether we (I) have been transformed into a new creation. (Gal 6:15, NLT)

That happy girl.  She read. And read.  I have not, for a year, been able to read.

Can I find my reading me again?

Might children’s literature be a hidden treasure?

The project tells of a new book group; of the joy of rereading those much loved gems of childhood.  My heart leaps.

Can I do it?  Commit to a book a month with friends?

Narnia. Green Gables. And Christmas won’t be Christmas without any presents. Should Mallory Towers creep in? And the Lone Pine Five and my complete set of The Chalet School? All 58 of them?

Did anyone else read Dorita Fairlie Bruce and Mary Louise Parker and Elsie Oxenham? Even their names weave an ancient spell.

The Secret Garden and The Little Princess.  Noel Streatfield.

Alice and Katy.  The mayday Queens in The Abbey. Heidi of course.

And more, so many more.

They are on my bookshelves still.

Could we meet and enjoy? Find some fun? Eat food from the books?

Would you come?

CONCERNING THE MORNING AID

  from my journal: October 2010

Psalm 22: “Concerning the morning aid”

This, the title of Psalm 22 in the LXX: concerning the morning aid.

It’s a psalm of deep, intense pain.

A psalm Jesus knew, for He shouted the start of it from the depths of His immense agony.

A psalm He fulfilled, with its descriptions of what He endured.

The darkness and suffering of Calvary.

Sorrow and pain.

Aloneness and being deserted.

Crying out and feeling unanswered in the depths of despair.

Sobbing and sleepless in the night. God seeming so far away.

Life pouring out like water.  Strength drying up.

Counting my bones for I am unable to eat.

Bereft.

And into the dark night of my soul comes this word:

the morning aid.

Say it aloud and it is my mourning aid.

Then I know that He will grant an end to this sorrow that for now is all consuming. That one day I shall know His love and comfort in all their realities.  For,

“even the darkness will not be dark to You; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to You.” (Psalm 139:12)

He will come. He does come.

“His coming is as certain as the morning.” (Hosea 6:3, old French version)

And He promised to come.

“I will not leave you as orphans [comfortless, desolate, bereaved, forlorn, helpless]; I will come [back] to you.” (John 14:18, Amplified Bible)

Through it all, in it all, He is there ; and if I do not yet know Him in it with me, I will.  I will.

“Oh, that we might know the Lord!

Let us press on to know him.

He will respond to us as surely as the arrival of dawn

or the coming of rains in early spring.” (Hosea 6:3)