I am a son, a husband, a father, a friend. I am, a recently retired, local authority foster carer, a member of a crazy, creative, frustration and joyous “church” family. I am a pilgrim, a traveller, an explorer, an avid reader and novice writer.
And I am wounded and scarred, broken and damaged. And yet healed and loved beyond recognition. On a good day, I am Papa’s Little Boy and Papa to “the next one.”
On a bad day… I am self-righteous, self-absorbed, religious, judgmental, critical, negative, determined to be right and let you know that I am right, at all costs. On these days, my scars have been prodded and poked enough for them to hurt all over again. And when I hurt… here comes another bad day.
Why am I writing?
I have always dreamed of writing. So, when somebody prays that past dreams be fulfilled, including writing, and then somebody comments on my writing skills, it felt like a nudge, a heavenly elbow in the ribs.
I am certainly not trying to persuade, convince, convict or put right. I have had more than enough of that in my life, both as a giver and a receiver. Neither am I claiming some superior revelation and experience; it is my journey and my story, not yours.
I do want to explore and discover, provoke and stimulate, encourage and support… fellow travellers and storytellers. I am not looking to force our paths together, but if we should bump into each other? Well, let’s walk and explore together for a while and see where it takes us.
Nestled deep in the British countryside is The Repair Shop, where a team of Britain’s most skilled and caring craftspeople rescue and resurrect items their owners thought were beyond saving. Together they transform priceless pieces of family history and bring loved, but broken treasures, and the memories they hold back to life. [Taken from the show’s website.]
There is a plethora of UK television programmes from a genre that has to do with antiques, usually owned by the public, who have no idea of the value that the pieces hold, except in sentimental value. When it was first launched on BBC1, late afternoon, I sighed. “Not another programme for old people! Really?” I chose to ignore the advancing years of my own life; I may not be old, but I am now sixty-one, and the aches and pain of that age remind me often that I am getting old, although I have no intention of behaving old… except for the frequent nap in the afternoon. It is necessary, combating my insomnia, caused by too many babies who didn’t like sleep. I digress.
I quickly got hooked, until today it is one of my favourite things on TV, even though it leaves me in tears far too often.
The Repair Shop reminds me of My Great Papa, the God of the Christian faith, who is often pictured as a potter, crafting pottery into something beautiful. The intention to detail as the master craftsmen repair items that I would probably have dumped; the joy they clearly get in working with such care to restore items back to something very close to their original glory; the patience it requires – nobody ever gives up, loses their cool or shows an ounce of frustration. And the pleasure shown by the craftsmen when the “customer” returns for their beloved old thing. The blanket is removed and the look on the owners face is always a picture. And the other craftsmen watch from their benches and join in the pleasure and joy, as though they have been part of the restoration – could that be a glimpse into the mystery that we call The Trinity, but have no idea what that means?
But The Repair Shop also shows what “church” should be and should look like. The world is full of broken people – sometimes simply from the wear and tear of life, but sadly often the result of neglect and abuse – people who need to be repaired and restored. If My Great Papa is the Master Craftsman, then surely church, whatever that looks like and is or isn’t, should be, at times, a repair shop? Sadly, for too many, and I am one, the church has become the place where much of the damage that we carry is inflicted, rather than where the damage is repaired.
The programme shows a group of people, all experts in their own field, but novices when it comes to what might be required at any time. They love their work – you can see the sheer pleasure they get doing the repair and the utter joy when the work is completed. Tired church has stopped enjoying those moments, probably we are no longer artisans in the role we play. And for too long, we have been fed the lie that pleasure and joy are emotions that Christians should not feel.
It is not unusual for one of the team to request the help of another to complete a job. The one drops everything to help the other, knowing that the one requesting will be the one who gets the credit. Oh, for church to be a community where there is no competition! And when the joy of unveiling the finished work erupts, the other craftsmen stop work at the bench to enjoy the moment. Church should always enjoy the success and completion of another.
And ultimately, “church” should be a place, a community, a family where the broken lives of both church and world can be repaired and restored, often to a greater glory and beauty than they had before. And while we celebrate their healing, My Great Papa smiles and sometimes chuckles at the great thing that has just been achieved.
I suspect there are conversations around the world, in churches of all shapes and sizes, about what church is going to be and look like, post-COVID19 and the lockdown. I don’t have answers, except to express the hope that church will become family, community – a place and a people where the broken and exhausted and lost can feel safe and loved; a place where somebody will draw alongside another, take their hand, and walk at least part of their journey of faith with them; a place where people, who are healed and restored, but still carry the scars, can administer the healing love of My Great Papa; an environment where the achievements and successes can be celebrated with others rather than competed against. And I could go on, but I suspect you get the drift.
The Repair Shop – a veiled image of heaven on earth? I hope so.
One step, two steps… climb higher and higher. Sometimes it is easier to look down at your feet. Sometimes it is easier to focus on each individual step. You can’t see the top or where you’re going. But you know you will get there eventually. Sometimes one foot in front of the other is all we need to get to the place we are heading.
I don’t like to complicate the climb. I also don’t like to diminish what it takes.
I believe courage is always growing in the belly of every human. We don’t always listen to it; we often romanticise it. Courage looks like one step, two steps… it looks like consistency and choice. It looks like breathing in and breathing out. And then it looks like the wind in your face and the vista in the reflection of your eyes. All of a sudden it feels like, I did it and I can do it again. You climb down and start over.
Sit down and recognise where you are in a “climb.” Breathe in the beauty of your courage. Let the delight of the Lord fill your lungs. Ask the Holy Spirit to give you strength and teach you how to breathe deeply and take simple steps.
I think it was the summer of 2010. We had gone to see our friend, Steve, in Norway. And bless him, he endured the drive and the climb of Preikestolen… again – it is kind of compulsory for all visitors!
The first hundred metres left me breathless, and thinking, “I am never going to make it to the top.” And my thoughts were mingled with my fear of heights – even a step ladder raised my anxiety levels.
The climb was quite fun – choosing your path, just a few steps ahead; turning a corner, reaching “the top,” only to discover there was another corner, another climb to conquer.
After a couple of hours, we reached the top. Well, almost. Between me and the ledge, there was a ridge. Wide enough for one foot at a time, with a drop onto a larger ledge of about 5 metres. I froze. I was so close to the top with all of the glory of the views and yet here was an obstacle too frightening to tackle.
I have known Steve for so many years and he knows me and my struggles. His response was brutal. “Okay, you stay here, and Teresa and I will go on.” I wrestled for hours; well, minutes, even seconds, but it felt like hours. “Let’s do it.” I stood for another few hours; well, minutes even seconds, figuring out the best way to do this, what foot to put in front of the other. And went for it. And made it. And then realised that I would have to do it all over again on the way back.
The view was stunning. Teresa leaned right over the edge; that was a step too far for me, but still the vista that attacked my eyes and my senses was stunning.
The climb down seemed quicker, but was increasingly painful. On the way down, we bumped into an elderly couple from Japan. They looked as if they were at least 80 years old, and they were going for it. Just as stunning as the view! The last few hundred metres into the car park were excruciating. Poor Teresa was in tears, so painful were the knees. The drive back to Steve’s was a couple of hours. Getting out of the car was painful; having a shower was painful; sitting down to eat was painful; getting into bed was painful; sleeping was painful. It all hurt like crazy!
I have never forgotten that day. The level of my courage to overcome my fear shocked me. I would like to say that my fear of heights was conquered, once-and-for-all, but that was not the case. It is always a choice, to grab hold of the courage within, and face the fear. I learnt a very valuable lesson that day.
My personal observation would be that anxiety, fear, worry, even panic are quite common in our society today. As I write, in the midst of the Coronavirus Crisis of 2020, fear is everywhere – from the way people avoid getting too close, to the way the media portrays the crisis in the health service, to the threat of Armageddon from some within the church, to the absurdity of conspiracy theories.
At the start of the year, I had a health scare. A stubborn sore throat caused the GP to fast-track me to the hospital to see a consultant. “Just a precaution” mutates into “Cancer!” Before I had even been to the hospital, Teresa and I had one of those “worst case scenario” conversations; in the car, so we didn’t have to look each other in the eye. It was probably the most profound and defining conversations I have been part of. The punch line went something like this:
“If the worst happens and it is cancer and it gets you, I will be okay. I have the family, our church family, and I have God. And for you, you get to go home to be with the one person you love more than anyone or anything else! Your Heavenly Papa!”
I cried that day, and I cry as I write. And Teresa is right. Therefore, what do I have to fear? The worst case scenario is an illusion, an oasis of fear and dread. The apostle Paul said this: “For me to live is Christ; to die is gain.” And he is right. In the language of life coaches it is a genuine win-win situation
Psalms 91.1: He who dwells in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.
I am writing this at the start of the third week of the COVID19 lockdown here in the UK. For most of us, we are confined to quarters, only allowed out of our homes for essential purposes. And for most of us, we are struggling, finding it hard to socially distance and slow down. I hope this helps:
As I walked out the door, down the path and through the gate, I spoke to the God of the Christian faith, who was yet to become My Great Papa: “What the hell are you doing this time?” Words spoken with more than a hint of pain, of anger and venom. I had just been abandoned, rejected and shut down by somebody I had trusted, because I should have been able to trust them.
The walk home that day was difficult. Emotions were running high, ebbing and flowing faster than usual, my mind spinning so fast I was quickly losing all sense of balance and equilibrium. And words refused to form, my inability to speak protecting me from expressing the poison of my heart and mind.
That day is forever etched, even seared in my memory as one of the key turning points of my life. I withdrew, especially from church which was now no longer safe, but a minefield littered with explosives; but also from friends, people I had trusted before, but now not sure that I could. I started to walk most days, even in the rain. In fact, the autumnal showers, the clouds, the almost naked trees, the cold wind seemed to suit my mood. The same route as I do today, thirteen years on.
These walks became one of my very few safe places. Nothing to prove, nothing to justify or explain; no performance to act out, no right or wrong, no expectations or demands. Just me, floundering around in my own pain and darkness. And in the darkness slowly discovering the hand that was outstretched, not forced but offered. And slowly but surely, over the years and still today, the discovery that the God of the Christian faith, had not instigated the pain, but was certainly creating a work of art, a thing of beauty and grace… Me!
Four months later, I found myself on the hills of Northumbria, still in pain, desperately trying to force my God into taking away the pain and banishing the darkness. And on that bitterly cold, but bright day, stood beside a pile of cow manure, overlooking the rolling hills, I discovered that the God of the Christian faith was actually and simply is, My Great Papa!
Twelve years have passed; I am more healed than I thought possible, and more loved by My Great Papa than I deserved or imagined. I still walk most days in The Secret Place. It is a daily form of discipline, a withdrawal, a seclusion, a kind of retirement, into a place of rest and safety. It is a place forbidden to others, a place of exclusive connection between me and the God I am now obsessed with. He is My Secret Place.
And so to 2020. We have had many other challenges over the years, situations where pain, darkness, fear and doubt attempt to batter down the door into my inner world. As each threat passes, I realise that it has become easier to shed the pain and feel my way through the thick fog, and then to move on, learning the lessons, understanding myself better, and still up for the journey that unveils before me.
When the government announced the rules of lockdown, the introvert within leapt for joy! Now my walk is compulsory – it is my daily dose of exercise, but it is so much more than that. I still wake at 04.00, the legacy of fostering little ones whose ability to sleep was seriously affected by their start in life. I am out of the house at around 05.00. On a bad day I might bump into five other insomniacs, out walking their dog, running, or feeding foxes! Usually it is two or three. My phone is silent. And in those early hours, I go into The Secret Place, isolate myself and rest in the company of My Great Papa. I am learning new depths of silence, solitude, withdrawal, seclusion and rest.
And there I am safe; not just from COVID19 or even the fear of this wretched virus. But safe, sheltering in the shadow of My Great Papa. Sometimes, shadows are good. As I recovered from the pain and darkness, I spent a lot of time in the shadows, protecting myself from further hurt. Now I spend time in The Shadow of My Great Papa. It is a great place to hide, to rest, to restore, to recharge my batteries; ready to emerge into the world in which I now find myself and ready to make a difference by being Papa to The Next One.
This lockdown is strange, something nothing could prepare us for. But it is also an opportunity, whatever your faith or religion, values or belief systems. It is a time to slow down, to withdraw into silence, stillness and rest; it is a time to reflect and meditate – all those things we have all neglected over the years and will, most likely, neglect in the future. Lockdown = The Secret Place. If my story is anything to go by, I promise you it will change you forever, especially if there you discover the ultimate beauty and love of My Great Papa.
I saw the cold, inflexible dryness of correct doctrine… now I see a God who will not be restricted by what I believe. I cannot believe that I settled for cold and dry for so long, when the warm rivers of relentless love have always been there.
I saw the barrenness of religious duty and habits… now I see the idea of intimacy relationship breaking out. My daily walk in The Secret Place has brought to life the garden of my heart, a place where my Papa and I can share hearts, dreams and visions. And I see the crazy world that we find ourselves in today as a call for the church to hibernate and rediscover The Secret Place.
I saw the edges of the broken glass of division, intolerance, hatred, bigotry, manifest in the church over centuries… now I see the incredible gentleness, love and joy of the kindness of my God being manifest, not only in his family, but in our nation trapped and imprisoned by the lockdown of Coronavirus.
I have seen over the years, in me and others, a harshness and unkindness that inflicts wounds and leaves scars… in the last few days, I have seen the kindness of a nation, honouring the NHS staff for all they are doing, the quiet “thank you” to nurses, bin men, supermarket staff, and so many other things.
I have seen and felt in the last few days the pain and hurt that we can inflict on each other… Today I see and feel the unbelievable healing of so many, who love and support when others are hurting.
“No one, no one is blinder, than he who will not see.” (U2)
I can see clearly today, where before I would have fumbled around in the dark. And it is not so hard for me to see what my Papa is doing as the world goes into lockdown. I can see a church pushed into The Secret Place, to rediscover what it means to be loved and then to love. I can see an outpouring of kindness, bubbling up to become, a torrent of love and gentleness and compassion… a church and a nation forever changed.
I’m a bit slow. It had been about two years, maybe three or four times a year; phrases like, “Shall we become foster carers?” “We could do fostering.” Only this time the thought stuck and the penny dropped: “You’re serious, aren’t you? I thought you were joking!”
And so began the exploration. I needed time. I walked. My usual walk along the beach, trying to make sense of the idea, trying to think through the implications, and trying to find where God was in all of this.
I have conversations with God. He is kind, invariably giving me a sense of his heart and purposes for me, but this was different. I remember clearly the day that I spoke with him and plunged myself into something so much deeper than the fostering. “But it’s not important enough for me!” As soon the words and the exclamation mark came out of my mouth I knew I was in trouble. “Really? Let me show you.”
And so I started a journey of discovering why fostering was God’s agenda for us as a couple and a family. From May through to August, He pursued me – newspaper articles, documentaries, films, music, books, conversations, all designed to open my eyes to why fostering was so important to God and, therefore to me. We went on holiday in August, and every day God woke me at 05.00 and showed me over and over why it made perfect sense for us to become foster carers. There were many tears as I grappled with the challenge. Now, don’t get too excited – I’m not a great sleeper and a regular “cryer” so neither were unusual, but this was different. God was on my case.
For many years previously, my passion had been the Father Heart of God. My own journey had led me into a revelation and an understanding of the power of knowing God as my Papa. And so I got to the point of asking myself the question… or was Holy Spirit whispering? “What greater way can you find to share the Father Heart of God than being a foster carer?” And the reality is I couldn’t. However hard I tried.
And so in December 2013 we were approved to be short-term foster-carers for our local authority. And in January 2014, the first two little ones arrived and we were crashing into a world of pain and darkness that I had never touched before. It is now August 2019. As I write at silly ‘o’ clock, our final placement, seven weeks old, is asleep in her pram. She is placement number 11, baby number 9. Three have returned home to birth parents, and we still see one occasionally; the first two are in long-term care; five have been adopted, with that being the plan for number 11. We still see the five who have been adopted. We are treated as family, and the unfolding of their stories continues to amaze us and fill us with awe at the grace and kindness of our God.
Being a foster carer is, without doubt, the hardest job I have ever done. But then it is so much more than a job. And it is, without doubt, the most rewarding thing I have ever done. To see little lives plucked from the darkness and the pain of their challenging starts, and see God heal them up as we try to love them with all that we have, has been such a privilege and a joy. To see adoptive parents take these little ones from our care and make themselves a family leaves me speechless and in tears most of the time.
And then I have to agree: being a foster-carer has been one of the most important things I have ever done. And it has changed me for ever.
a person noted for courageous acts or nobility of character:
He became a local hero when he saved the drowning child.
a person who, in the opinion of others, has special achievements, abilities, or personal qualities and is regarded as a role model or ideal:
My older sister is my hero. Entrepreneurs are our modern heroes.
I am thinking of making this a series of blogs about people who have impacted my life either intentionally or without knowing. Some I know, some are strangers; some come to stay for a while, fellow pilgrims sharing their journey with me and vice verse, while others are there for a moment and then gone. But all have changed my life in one way or another, and so I am very grateful for them. And every time I think of them, I am again inspired to press on, to keep going, to remember who I am and why I do what I do. They deserve to be my heroes.
The Old Man with a Young Heart:
I used to see them almost every day, same time, same place unless it was raining. He, a little old man, but pretty fit for his age and his wife, trapped in a wheelchair and dependent on her husband to create for her as much freedom as he possibly could. For weeks I would simply walk past them, maybe say “Good morning,” and then carry on. Invariably, I had a baby, disgruntled, sometimes screaming, who hated the pram with a vengeance, so conversation would be challenging. At least that is my excuse! Until…
In the end I could not resist! I never can! I said hello, and then started a conversation, that ended up with me saying to the old man, “I watch you every day and have figured out that you are amazing, walking your wife down to the beach every day.” To which he replied, “Oh, it’s nothing. The lady is worth it!” At which point, I could feel the tears coming, and moved on quickly.
These are those divine appointments, those God-created encounters with ordinary people, who do extraordinary things and become heroes without realising it, inspiring others to crack on, and press in, however tough it is. And in those moments with these heroes, I find renewed strength, courage and resilience to keep on doing what I do, because whoever it is, and whatever it is I am doing, “they are worth it.”
The Bible talks about us all being made in the image of God. Now that can mean a whole range of things, depending on your theological position, the journey you have been on and the kind of person you are. But, at the very least, it means that you are “worth it.” It places within each person living today an intrinsic value based on nothing other than you are alive and breathing and made in the image of God.
And for me, living in this moment and enjoying it, this intrinsic value must, by definition, impact the way I am living now, what I am doing and why I am doing it, how I relate to God – my Papa – and how I relate to the next one. For the most part, the next one for me is the little one in our care today; it is the birth parents with all their pain and darkness and wounds and their inability to care for their little ones; it is the social workers and other professionals, most of whom try to do the best they can while working in a broken and malnourished system. And all of them are worth my best efforts to be like my Papa, just because they are, made in the image of God. And, of course, it means those who are always my next ones – my wife, my own kids, my wider family, and my church family – they are all worth it.
And so, when I look back at where I started, admiring a little old man pushing his disabled wife down the beach because she is worth it, I am inspired to just maybe, be a hero and an inspiration to somebody else.
I have always been speechless… well, most of the time. As long as I can remember I have had a stutter; or is it a stammer? Or maybe both?
I quickly learned that participation in lessons at school were an invitation to be mocked and bullied, so as far as I could I stayed quiet…
My childhood at home didn’t really help either. There were occasions, just a few, when I would be teased and laughed at by my own parents. Added to which, we were brought up in a religious environment, where the ultimate position was something along the lines of, “This is what we believe; we expect you to believe the same.” Not dissimilar to, “Because I said so!”
As a young adult I made my own faith decisions. The church youth group was big, healthy and a lot of fun. I discovered that I could make people laugh and that people were prepared to be patient with me and listen to me. For the first time ever, my opinion mattered and counted for something.
As time passed, I learnt how to speak in public. It started with very short epilogues and then leading the youth group discussion, and then finally preaching on Sunday mornings. Friends were very kind, encouraging me into church leadership, which I loved… and needed. And then trouble. The thrill of being heard, of being influential, of being in the know went to my head. I became difficult even to the point of arrogance. I fell out with several church leaders over the years until I was shoved onto The Dark Path.
Bullied, threatened, abandoned and ignored.
Only this time I was content to not have a voice. It was my voice that got me into so much trouble, so I learnt to accept not having one. I hid, in the shadows, at home, in the safety of my family and those very close friends who stood by me and supported me.
While on my Dark Path, I had some counselling. My counsellor was a top bloke and very wise. I remember it clearly, the day he asked me to listen to a Josh Groban song. Not my favourite sound, but a song that talked about not being heard, not being listened to, except by The One, My Papa, The God of my story and journey.
My time on The Dark Path became a catalyst for walking, the same route along the beach, day after day, and while walking I learned that I never have to be speechless again, because there is The One. I would pour my heart out to him, day after day, week after week, and now year after year. To start with he listened and he still does. But gradually, over time, things changed, and I became more interested in what he had to say; and then content to just enjoy being aware of him.
More recently, I have been reading and thinking about the mystery that God is, and has to be. If there is a God, then by definition, he has an “otherness” about him. The understanding of him, and the challenges of life that throw up apparent contradictions and opposites and incompatibles, has brought me to a point in my journey and story where I am coming to live with the tension of being known by, and knowing, somebody who is outside time and space, and yet lives within the limitations of time and space. The result? Speechless!
Because there are not enough words to explain the God that I call Papa; because my vocabulary is too limited to describe the outrageous and endless love that he has drowned me in; because I never thought I could love him as much as I do while accepting that I will never love him as much as he deserves.
Only now I am content and satisfied to be quiet and silent and still. Speechless before the mystery and intimacy of My Papa.
“Come to the River, all who are thirsty.” We Are The River! We are your refreshment, your restoration, your rest, your cleansing! Not… Nothing or Nobody Else! Just Us!
I stand on the river bed, a bed of pebbles and stones and dried wood. The plants of the river are long dead. I am not alone. As I look there are others, standing. What for?
I am waiting for The River to return. A river that once trickled, sometimes, flowed and very occasionally raged like white water. The River I had in mind dried up long ago. It refreshed, renewed, restored then, but has now dried up. It is as if a drought has come and stayed.
As I look in the cloudless sky with no sign of the rain I long for, I begin to see. Like a laser beam piercing my mind and my heart, I start to understand. The River was the wrong river. It was never going to stay, for it was made of man made things, things that pretended to be The River while not being the river – religious rules, regulations, expectations, demands; valid spiritual practices that become routine, duty, habit devoid of life, of water.
And then out of nowhere, large, cold drops of rain appear. Slowly and deliberately the rain increases into a deluge. And between my toes and around my feet, The River forms and flows. My tired feet and legs are suddenly shocked into refreshment and vigour.
And I realise that this is The River! The River! What is The River? Who is The River? It is YHWH! My God! Papa, Mama and Yeshua The Christ! The Mysterious three-in-one! They are The River! My River! My Source of all that is good and fresh and real!
It’s 4.45 in the morning. I’m already up. My sleep patterns are shot to pieces. I get a text from upstairs; the little one is awake and not going back to sleep. That’s not unusual. He is what we affectionately call our latest “drugs baby.” No one response works more than a couple of times, so I have to quickly decide what to do.
Fifteen minutes later and he is asleep in my arms and I am sat in my IKEA rocking chair. I am frustrated: I can’t reach my once hot, now lukewarm coffee; I can’t reach my iPad; I can’t reach my book; I can’t even reach the TV controls – bad planning.
I intermittently hum and “shh” the little one, while gently rocking in my chair. The very slight creak warns me I need to tighten the bolt, top left hand side, but for now it is part of the symphony. He then adds the gentle snoring sound to the rhythm that starts to emerge. And as I sit there, Papa emerges in the darkness. I sense he strokes the little one’s hair and then squeezes my shoulder. And then I get it. The power of rhythm.
Matthew 11:28-30 (MSG)
28 “Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. 29 Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. 30 Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.”
And as I continue the rhythm that soothes the little one, offering him safety, security and love, the words of Yeshua the Christ come to mind. I love that phrase “the unforced rhythms of grace,” and on this morning, in the darkness, I discover the power of them all over again.
You will find rhythm wherever you go – the sea washing up on the shore, the gentle breeze rustling the leaves on the trees, the drone of the plane or the car. Little ones love the white noise of the washing machine or the hoover – there is a built-in rhythm that soothes their fractious hearts.
In the next forty-five minutes I enjoyed the stillness and the gentle rhythm along with the quiet joy of loving this little one back to life. But more than that, I enjoyed listening to the heartbeat and the gentle breathing in and out of my God, who knows me better than I know myself, and who knows that I flourish and live and love when I am living in the unforced rhythms of his grace.
It is part of the The Great Adventure that I find myself facing, a journey of discovering the vastness of my God’s heart and the endless oceans of his love for me. It is not what I expected; no, it is much better than that and learning to rest and settle into the rhythms that he provides for me is part of keeping myself mentally and emotionally safe while at the same time giving me more than enough to share with the next one.
At the grand old age of sixty, I have been launched into a landscape that I have never seen before, and rather than it being frightening, it is exhilarating. The opportunity for exploration and discovery and adventure has invigorated me in my journey of faith.
I have seen it in my own life, and more recently in the lives of others that straight lines and boxes end up becoming tightropes and cages that squeeze the life and hope out of far too many. As a child, I was brought up to believe certain things without question. My faith (if that is what it was) evolved into something rigid and inflexible, which then expressed itself in ways of relating with others that was just as rigid and inflexible. My faith then became a cage or a prison in which I was trapped. Which is okay, until something goes wrong, until the inevitable pain and darkness of life hits you so hard it floors you.
For the fearful, for those who find themselves without the courage to face their pain and darkness, straight lines and boxes become a comfort and a safe place. The danger is that you then accept the tightrope and the cage as life, as the best it can be; hope soon dissolves before your eyes. And you are left with a God who is also trapped in a cage – the cage of your rigid and inflexible beliefs and doctrines.
And it is only from the straight lines and boxes that the fearful then declare their beliefs as the only right ones. Which makes everybody else wrong. Which is where we get denominations, tribes, within “the church” and if you are not in a certain tribe, then you are wrong. And why so many Christ-followers have abandoned the tribes and find themselves homeless.
Today I find myself walking a path, less travelled than any I have been on before. The scenery is new to me, but I am discovering the presence of my God, in all sorts of places, places I had decided they couldn’t possible be. My tightropes and cages have gone… most of the time. And I am free to explore and live with the mystery that God has to be; free to think the unthinkable, to dare to ask questions, to explore and play. It is a great place to be.
For the record, many of my beliefs look the same. I have not abandoned the historical Christian faith. In fact, I would suggest that I am discovering the depth and riches of this faith in ways that were out of bounds to me before. But look beneath the lid, and peep in my conversations with my PAPA, and with the next one, and you might wonder. Go ahead wonder… Wonder and mystery are incredible things, tools to lead us to love, which is the only thing that remains…