Sitting on my coat in Nando's

We got the train back from Cornwall. Five hours in total, unless it's 'hot' and the train has to go really slowly over the melting track (yes I'm talking about the UK in April), then it's six hours. Then a stop-stop-start tube at the end of the journey. We went straight to Nando's as we were starving, had no food at home, and it was past kiddie-teatime.

There were no tables free and we had to wait. By this time Harry was all out of the ability to wait, but he was also too tired, hungry and worn out to do anything else. He spread his coat out on the floor by the entrance to the restaurant, and sat there, with all energies spent. I knew to move him would be the last straw so I just let him be.

I know how he feels. In certain seasons, in certain circumstances, I feel like I've done all the waiting I can, but have nothing in me to do anything else. I now have a prayer that goes 'God, I'm on my coat in Nando's!'  Trouble is, I am increasingly convinced that life is largely about learning to wait well.

Right now, my season feels like an awful lot of uncertainty. A lot of wondering just how the pieces of our lives are going to fit together. And not much to do except take it slow and do the next little bit.

As I attend a baptist church I am out of touch with the seasons and rhythms of the liturgical year. However, I do know that we are between the ascension (Jesus goes back to heaven) and Pentecost (the disciples receive the Holy Spirit). I know this because the Archbishop of Canterbury has a prayer initiative focused on these very days. There are a whole host of resources on the website, including daily prayers entitled 'conversations in the in-between'.

The in-between times are a thing. They are a season, ordained and ordered by God just as much as the decisive, happening, eventful days. They have their own blessings, wisdom, strength and joy to bestow. I hope I don't miss them because I'm not looking.

It's the cross- again

How do we pray?

I've been wondering- even before the events of Monday night- how do we pray as parents?

How should I pray when my child faces trouble and pain, and there's nothing I can do?

You see, those prayers I feel I ought to pray- thy will be done for example- don't spring easily to my lips when it's my kids, not me.

What do I say when my daughter urgently needs an operation and I can't get her an appointment?

What do you say when you are waiting in agony for your missing child to phone, or to come home, or to come out of intensive care? What do you do - and my heart and mind can barely go there- if they are not coming home again?

The gospels are full of desperate parents and friends, coming to Jesus. When God put his feet on the dusty earth people came and poured out their hearts- please, look on this one I love and make it better!

He never said 'your prayers aren't holy enough'. Oh, he may have led them to see the deeper need of their hearts, but in mercy and gentleness.

So I take my rough, raw, untutored prayers to his throne room, where I can only come because of the Son- and I say, Lord, my heart breaks for this child-

And I listen in wonder as the Heavenly Father, the creator of the universe, gives his reply-

I know

Spring

The grass in the field at the end of the road is growing lusciously long (for London) , with the promise of dandelion clocks and other treasures. Round the corner there's a swan on a nest, and things are blooming everywhere.

This year my heart hasn't leapt with the coming of spring as much as it normally does. I usually delight in the warmth, the colour, the promise. This time, though, the promise has seemed a little hollow. Because instead of looking forward to sunny picnics and summer holidays, I am thinking about hospital - about surgery for my girl, and all that brings. My usual planning of lovely things has to go on hold.

Was it C.S. Lewis who talked about 'disordered loves'? Probably. Well, I think my hopes are disordered too. My hope of a happy meandering spring and summer was always fairly flimsy. But that doesn't mean that the promise of spring is false. It means I'm not dreaming deep enough.

The beauty inherent in this broken world speaks of the lost Garden, which will one day be restored. It's a hope that is deep and strong and sure, and which cannot be derailed by a change in circumstances.

I was going to quote the beautiful words of this lady, but actually, you know what? Just go and read it. You won't regret it.
http://www.thoroughlyalive.com/2017/03/beauty-believe-it/

She also led me to this poem from, once again, C.S. Lewis.

I heard in Addison’s Walk a bird sing clear:
This year the summer will come true. This year. This year.

Winds will not strip the blossom from the apple trees
This year, nor want of rain destroy the peas.

This year time’s nature will no more defeat you,
Nor all the promised moments in their passing cheat you.

This time they will not lead you round and back
To Autumn, one year older, by the well-worn track.

This year, this year, as all these flowers foretell,
We shall escape the circle and undo the spell.

Often deceived, yet open once again your heart,
Quick, quick, quick, quick!—the gates are drawn apart.