He will not let your foot slip

"Lauren and I have to leave now - we have to get back for work tomorrow. Let us know as soon as you hear anything." Throughout the two-hour journey back to Stellenbosch, and into the night, we prayed... 

The group of students had gone for a short, relatively easy hike. It was sunny; the hike was a simple circular route near the campsite in the Cedarberg mountains. Some of the less adventurous stayed behind, taking a shorter, easier walk.

Late in the afternoon the hiking group returned...minus one member, Eben. He'd somehow been left behind or taken a wrong turn. We waited a while, then turned to the campsite owners for help. Soon a search-party was organised - and dusk began to fall...

As one of the leaders of this group of Christian students, I was hesitant to leave. But Lauren also had to get back, so it was agreed we'd go. Before we left, I was reminded of Psalm 121:

Psalm 121

A song of ascents.

1 I lift up my eyes to the mountains—

    where does my help come from?

2 My help comes from the Lord,

    the Maker of heaven and earth.

3 He will not let your foot slip—

    he who watches over you will not slumber;

4 indeed, he who watches over Israel

    will neither slumber nor sleep.

5 The Lord watches over you—

    the Lord is your shade at your right hand;

6 the sun will not harm you by day,

    nor the moon by night.

7 The Lord will keep you from all harm—

    he will watch over your life;

8 the Lord will watch over your coming and going

    both now and forevermore.

I was immediately struck by two lines: "he will not let your foot slip..." - this spoke directly to our concern that Eben might have fallen and been injured. The approaching darkness was another concern - but "the sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon by night." God spoke to our anxious thoughts, bringing peace and hope.

The next day we heard how Eben had seen the lights of the search party on the road and been able to make his way down to them. He was unharmed.

[The above events took place in about 1992, when I worked with the Student Christian Association at the University of Stellenbosch.]

This door is never closed

While sitting waiting in the car while my husband went into the electrical store, I watched customers going in and out. From the outside, the shop looked closed: the storefront was high and covered in advertising. The tall set of front doors too were opaque, each side advertising a different brand of high-end plug- and light-fittings.

Despite the appearance of being closed, the doors slide open whenever a customer approaches, giving a glimpse of an expansive interior before sliding together again to reinstate the “closed” look.

A well built man strides up to the doors, a young boy trailing behind him. He can’t be older than four; Dad looks to be in his early thirties. As the doors open, he steps into the store without looking round. The boy hasn't yet stepped up onto the small raised porch in front of the door and I shift uneasily in my seat: will he catch up? As he reaches the doors, they slide closed - close enough to him to make me catch my breath anxiously, anticipating them closing ON him.

My hand moves automatically to the car door handle - what will the boy do? I hear his plaintive cry, “Papa!” He is so small beside the tall, high doors. He cannot see in - cannot see where his father has gone. “Papa!” - more urgently now. Where is his father? How could he just walk away without checking on his son?

I am about to get out of the car to reassure him when the doors open, and the father scoops him up and carries him inside. I sit back, relieved.

Each one of us is like that little boy, completely cut off from the love and fatherhood of God. 

BUT scripture tells us he has not left us as orphans; there are countless stories and parables about how God seeks us out, rescues us, sweeps us up in his embrace. We have only to recognise his absence from our lives and cry, "Papa!" and he will race to our rescue.

“Is anyone crying for help? God is listening, ready to rescue you.”

‭‭Psalms‬ ‭34‬:‭17‬ ‭The Message version

"How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God!"

1 John 3:1

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?"

Romans 8:35

Looking it up...

 The classroom is very like the ones I taught in 15 years ago; the desks, in particular, have not changed. Each one comprises a  wooden bench seat, a wide, single-slatted wooden back, and wooden lidded desk. A metal U-shaped support curves from the front of the desk on each side, down to form the front legs, backwards across the floor, and up to form the back legs and provide a place to attach the backrest. I wonder if the desk lids are nailed closed, as in every other school I know, the authorities having given up trying to keep the insides clean of half-eaten sandwiches, staples, and crib-notes. (I make a mental note to check.)

The class - the learners - are very different to most of those I've taught before: a small group who have chosen this extra, after-hours English Literature class. They take an interest, join in discussions, aren’t hesitant to offer ideas. And they don’t hesitate, either, to use their phones to look up anything I or they are unsure of. This includes the meanings and connotations of words.

In one session, "esoteric" (understood by a few people with specialised knowledge) comes up and I reach for the dictionary. It is in the cupboard behind me, and by the time I’ve got it out, someone is already offering a definition found online via their phone.

I hand someone else the thick, heavy book and insist we use it.

I don't think my choice is just based on "tradition". There is real merit in opening the actual book, rather than using a search engine. But what are the differences? Why does it matter?

Before even the act of turning pages or typing, there is the engagement of the other senses: the scent of the printed page (and dust!) versus no scent at all; the weight of the book (my Concise Oxford Dictionary is 1.58kg) and how it must be held or supported, versus the weight of the phone; the sound of rustling pages versus tapping (or no sound at all).

Then there is the act of turning the pages versus typing or tapping a word into a device. The eyes and hands work differently, requiring diverse skills. As you turn the page, eye and brain must coordinate: is this the word? Have I paged too far (scanning not just the head word, but others on the page, checking the alphabet)? In the digital version, you see only a pop-up list of instant, almost identical options. Some selection might be required: do I choose the Wikipedia definition, or might Britannica be more reliable? Whichever I choose, it will only give me one word, not two columns (four, if I glance at the opposite page) that show off the variety and flexibility of the language.

Opening my tome now to look up "flexibility," I open on fuchsia / fuliginous and realise I've always spelt "fuchsia" incorrectly and have no idea what "fuliginous" means ("sooty, dusky"). I page back to find fluvio / flysch (the spellchecker on the laptop doesn't recognise "fluvio") and finally fleshy / flinch: the page I need. I am distracted by some writing on the inner flap of the dictionary's cover, with an arrow pointing to some regular small gaps in the edge of the cover. They are teeth marks from a long-departed pet rat (his cage was on the shelf next to the book, at least until the gnawing incident.)

Back to "flexibility": first comes the verb "flex," then the noun; then the adjective "flexible," with "flexibility" (ability to change readily to meet new circumstances) as one of its derivatives.

Where an online search would have taken a few seconds, this has taken a minute or two, and been so much more enriching and enjoyable. It makes me want to stage a protest in support of the printed word, and dictionaries in particular:

        Viva print dictionaries, viva! Long live print dictionaries, long live!

I hope you will join me.

Where were you?

 Where were you on April 27th 1994? Take a moment to think back...

Did you stand for hours, first in the pre-dawn chill and then in the sun? Did you brave the rain? There was provision for some to cast their votes the previous day: the elderly, and those with special needs, and those who had to work on Election Day. There was even an allowance for "overflow" voting the next day.

Did you queue with excitement, or with fear? Times had been tense - threats of violence in some places, actual violence in others, with protests and riots and old-style police strong-arm tactics. The assassination of Chris Hani the previous year was fresh in our minds. 

Perhaps we all approached the day with a cocktail of feelings: hope as the base, joined by a sense of justice, with a swirl of trepidation and a dash of cynicism, and maybe a slice of bright excitement to top it off.

I had the privilege of working at a local election station. We were trained beforehand in how make the ink mark on the thumb and how to use the ultraviolet scanners to check for those marks. Only a select group of volunteers were permitted to stand at the actual voting boxes where the folded ballot papers were pushed in with rulers; only some were allowed to check the voters' rolls and people's IDs. But we all had a role to play. 

I remember doing door duty, and handing out ballot forms. It was quiet, just a low murmur of brief exchanges between the waiting citizens, instructions from the officials. It was humbling and rewarding to see every person allowed through the doors, welcomed with a smile, and finally allowed to step up and make their cross, many for the first time in their lives. No matter how different we all looked or the languages we spoke, that day we were simply all South Africans, and proudly so.

Courage

 A woman sits before us, dressed in a white and blue printed shirt-dress and leggings, hair artfully pinned up, colourful glasses framing a wide-eyed, intent, focused gaze. She is next to a portable whiteboard; we are ranged around her in a circle in the room where we have met for the past ten Sunday evenings as we explore "The Artist's Way at Work".

She tells us of her hesitation about joining  us tonight; how she thinks she’s done the assignment/ task all wrong; how, that afternoon, she was facing her blank collage page - thinking of leaving it blank; and then deciding to fill it. Choosing too to fill it with the reality of how things are, with what really is: the way she feels, the labels she puts on herself, the terrible weight of depression that has kept her submerged on so many days… And also to add what she hopes to become: creative, brightly colorful, focused… The muddy river she has painted becomes lighter, wider, reaching up and across the page to the pictures and swatches of fabric that represent those vivid future things.

And because she has come, because she has filled the page with her reality, we in turn can tell her that she is in fact already all those hoped-for things, and so much more.  We can tell her how we see her: bright in every way, creative, strong, daring to stand up and stand out. We weren’t aware of her struggle; but now that we are, she seems to us even more luminous and vital, as she continues her journey.

And now we journey with her.

Hello?

The other day my phone travelled to work with my husband. I was already AT work, had left it at home where he still was, and he was to drop it off on his way to various sites. Distracted by calls as he drove, he forgot to come past and drop it off.

After an initial burst of irritation, I realised it was not really his problem. After all, it was me who'd forgotten my phone in the first place. True, he offered to bring it when asked; but it was still "my problem", not, as my son William taught me a few days ago, "SEP" - someone else's problem. I know you will want to know that the phrase "someone else's problem" comes from the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (we aren't sure, William and I, from which of the four books in the trilogy* it came).

I needed my phone to facilitate payments from clients at work - but I could use my employer's phone (and she got to practice leaving it with me like she's supposed to do. My two employers are doctors, and the phone should be with me while they consult. They each manage this in different ways - a story for another day.)

The only message on my absent phone that needed attending to was one about collecting a carpet to be cleaned. Steve organised for the carpet to be got ready, but forgot to reply to the message; the carpet simply waited until the next day to be collected. (I'm remembering E.E. Nesbit's tale of The Phoenix and the Carpet, where an old rolled-up carpet bought on a sale turns out to be magical... The magic in our case will be to have a clean carpet once again!)

I'm sure if I ran a business I'd be writing in a different tone, saying how much I'd missed out on with my phone not to hand. As it is, I have to report that I managed perfectly well without it. All the experts who write about screen time and cell phone use advise "time off" - devices turned off or put away, down-time. Take it from me: this is not nearly as scary or difficult as it sounds.

Step one: leave your phone at home...

* if you think this is a mistake - four books in a trilogy - it means you have not encountered the author Douglas Adams. You have missed out.

Elgin Railway Market

 The buzz and hum of talk is punctuated by by the odd clink of cutlery; a cool breeze comes fitfully through the large sliding window that the man at the next table has just opened. The big wooden refectory tables with their benches can seat 20-plus; the space is filling up as visitors arrive to see the approach of the train. Will today be steam? It’s what they have all come to see… the tame dragon from a past era, that demands coal and water and constant tending as it hauls its passengers up the pass to these upland apple orchards with their surrounding forests and hills. Beyond the old station yard are more sheds, then hills, then higher, pine-forested hills beyond them. Today they are dimmed with a fine mist.

A shrill child's voice breaks into my thoughts, and the musician downstairs is starting up again (not Country and Western this time, please!). We are sitting in the upstairs level which forms a gallery around three sides of this old market building. Two of the three sides are filled with tables; the other side contains boutique shops of different sizes; and along the fourth side, an arched walkway connects it all, inviting exploration. Several staircases, each in  a different style, lead between this and the floor below. The focus of the shops and stalls around ground-floor perimeter is on food - wine, coffee, sweet treats, curries, sushi, pizza, Middle Eastern (Petra is the name)… every taste catered for. The huge tables occupying the central area are almost all occupied. The specialist gift shops offer African and more local Western Cape clothes and jewellery and scarves and kitchen ware and there is a Gentleman’s Emporium… and the guitarist has just started a Christian song. We finish out coffee and go out onto the upper deck into the drizzle, gazing down at the platform where the train is due to arrive. But no train can be heard. Steve goes off to enquire. "The wheels are slipping in this wet weather, unable to get up the pass," is what he hears from the barman, who seems to know. Suddenly I'm five years old again, hearing the steam engine straining to chuff-chuff-chuff its way up Field's Hill, the screech of brakes as it tries to find a foothold on the wet tracks... It seems the problems with steam have not changed since then.

But we came for the outing, not specifically to see the train, so we turn back inside out of the wet and thread our way through the jostling families and out of the rising noise. My eye is caught by a bright orange glow of beads on a wire hoopoe bird. He reminds me of the birds in my childhood garden; we wait while the artist affixes beady black eyes. He explains that some people don't like the birds to have eyes, so he waits until the purchase to add them, if wanted.

Now the bird sits watching me as I write, poised on tip-toes, beak lifted as if ready to take flight, with the look of a toddler about to run off on the next adventure, giggling.

Jewels

After my mother died, we sold her pearls.

Actually, over several years, we have gradually sold most of the jewellery she left me.

When I first went through all the jewels - and I use the term advisedly - it was quite overwhelming. There were things I'd forgotten she owned - and things I'd never seen. There were more rings than one person could reasonably wear, all set with precious gems (mostly sapphires, either blue or yellow). There were earrings to match, along with a string of glowing amber beads, watches and gold chains, and the pearls. 

"Why have all this stuff if you never wear it or enjoy it?" This was one of my indignant questions, feeling angry, baffled and saddened all at once.

Some of the things were familiar. She wore them often, and they reminded me of her and of her love for showy jewellery. Some things were old, like her engagement ring and a small, pale purple amethyst pendant I remember her receiving one Christmas when I was a child. Others came from the years she and my dad spent in Saudi Arabia - flashy settings, heavy with the gold that everyone bought on an almost weekly basis. It was what you did: you visited the Gold Souk [market] on a Friday night, spending the dollar-based salary you were earning. It was generally seen as an investment. For my mother, her gold was a kind of insurance policy, making sure she got her share of what my dad was earning.

It was also her way of showing the world that she'd arrived, that she was somebody. I could see a pattern to her buying: she'd start out with a small version of what she aspired to - tiny tanzanite earrings, for example - but then buy a larger, more expensive version as soon as she could afford it.

This need to "show off", to display her wealth, was in constant conflict with the fear of being burgled or even attacked on the street and robbed of her jewellery. As time went on, she wore less and less of her jewellery when going out. It remained in a safe-box in the bank. I think even my mother forgot some of what she owned.

It has taken us several years to gradually sort through what I inherited - first getting it valued; then finding out how little of that value it can actually realise if sold; and then finally finding reliable buyers.

Each time we sorted, it was a process of keeping what we love, giving some away, selling some... Each time there was a loss, a connection gently untied, a goodbye said. Each time I grieved for the woman who owned it.

And with each piece I keep, each time I wear it, I remember her.

Unpicking the past

This time last year, I listened to a spokesperson discussing the huge challenges facing the country. He was positive about overcoming them - “like we overcame or solved Apartheid” were more or less his words. 

Solved Apartheid? Is it SO simple? Surely we have come nowhere near... It no longer exists on paper; but its spread, its consequences, are everywhere. 

The image came to mind of how one unpicks a seam or thread in a garment or other piece of fabric. Sometimes the seam is easy to see, and one can cut the thread and give a quick tug and much of it pulls away in one go.

But other seams are harder to see; too tightly sewn or with thread the same colour as the garment, so the seam is near-invisible. It is hard to cut the thread without damaging the cloth; and the stitches must be pulled one by one, painstakingly.

I am reminded of a fingerless glove I recently knitted. It is just a simple rectangle, really, sewn up to leave just one space for the thumb. However, on sewing it up, I forgot to leave a space for the thumb. I've tried several times to unpick it, but I simply can’t find where the seam ends and the glove begins. To rectify it, I will have to sew each end of where the opening should be, then cut it open and then secure any loose threads. The task is so daunting that I have not tackled it - and the glove remains unworn.

I am not deprived of just one glove, either; its completed partner lies idle, waiting for the other to join it to make a usable pair. 

Yet surely we must begin, one careful stitch at a time, to unravel the past without damaging the present, so that we can create a future we all can "use".

And if unravelling seems too hard,

and "solving" seems impossible,

then we must create another way, together.

Thankful

After being ill for the whole of June this year (2020), with what turned out to be pneumonia, I'm very thankful to be well again. In fact, I realise just how many people there are to thank, and how many things to be thankful for. I recently spoke about all of these in a short video for our online church meetings (live.urbanvoice.org.za), and I thought I'd recap them here.

I'm grateful to be part of a church family: a group of people who prayed for me and messaged and phoned both me and my family with encouragement and support.

Within that church family is a smaller group, my Life Group, who arrived with meals (from sausage and mash to beef stroganoff!). They also kept a check on how my family was managing, as well as praying for me.

Another part of the church family is the Worship Team of which Steve and I are a part. They sent an extravagant, gorgeous bunch of flowers. Every time I looked at it, I was reminded of God's love for me, and their love and care too. The flowers lasted for weeks, unfolding and blooming.

Something I didn't add in the video (I had a time-limit) is how I couldn't work for about six weeks - yet finances where taken care of. One job paid me generous sick-leave, while from another came some back-pay owed to me; and a royalty payment came through.

At home, my husband Steve took over most of my chores, from laundry to cooking, and nursed me as well. In the context of current affairs and COVID-19, we could be thankful that he was still working from home, and so was able to manage all this. My two teenage boys carried on as normal, and even brought their Mom tea a few times!

There's a song that says, "What a friend we have in Jesus" - and indeed I found this to be true. While I was ill, I had no energy for anything, even reading; and there were long periods of just lying still, or waiting. During these times, I remembered all the dark days that Jesus has walked me through - and the good and joyful times too.

The Holy Spirit brought to mind bible verses and songs to encourage or soothe me; and there were special moments of comfort and help. One in particular happened when I went for an MRI scan:

In the MRI, you lie completely still while your brain is scanned. This means your head is immobilized in a kind of vice. To make sure there's no movement, a kind of "sponge" is also wedged in on each side of your head. At the time I had the scan, I'd had a fever and unrelenting headaches for several weeks - and that day was no different. The grip of the head-hold could have been frightening and claustrophobic and almost unbearable. Instead, into my mind dropped the image of two hands holding my head firmly but lovingly. What is more, I knew whose hands they were: the hands of a school-friend whom I hadn't seen for years. I hadn't even been in touch with her recently - yet I had a clear picture and tangible sense of care and compassion. I can only describe this as a special gift from God in that moment.

That's my "thankfulness" list. I'd like to end with a kind of summary to encourage you:

• if you are sick, allow others to help and bless you
• turn to God in whatever way you can
• whether sick or well, pray for one another
• if you are praying for the sick, pray for faith and peace along with healing
• give thanks

Our God Reigns

This song is on an album I've had for a while, but I only listened to it recently - on the first of April, in fact, when South Africa was just into the first few days of "lockdown" against the Corona virus/ COVID-19. As I write, we've just listened to the President announce a partial lifting of lockdown, with strict conditions still in place.

I've copied the lyrics here, but the part that really struck me was the chorus - Hallelujah our God reigns - where Jenn Johnson encourages us to "sing it out" - to "sing out Hallelujah," God's sovereignty, over a solid, comprehensive list of things, from our families to those who are homeless.

Even if you don't listen to this kind of music, I hope you'll take a listen and be strengthened and reassured by the chorus in particular. Link: God I look to You

God I Look To You (Bethel Music)

God I look to You, I won’t be overwhelmed
Give me vision to see things like You do
God I look to You, You’re where my help comes from
Give me wisdom; You know just what to do

I will love You Lord my strength
I will love You Lord my shield
I will love You Lord my rock forever
All my days I will love You God

Hallelujah our God reigns
Hallelujah our God reigns
Hallelujah our God reigns
forever all my days Hallelujah

Why you should use cash

Cash keeps you honest.
Honest with yourself; honest with your spouse; honest with the person or business whose money has been entrusted to you.

In Dan Ariely's Predictably Irrational, he relates several sets of experiments that he and his colleagues run to test people's honesty. Students answer some questions, add up their scores, and are rewarded a small amount for each correct answer. There is a control group; a group who can cheat to some degree; and a group who can cheat completely if they wanted to. Those who can cheat, do - but not by very much. Then the researchers add in other factors.

They begin with finding out whether an honour code helps reduce cheating - and it not only reduces it, it eliminates it altogether:

So we learned that people cheat when they have a chance to do so, but they don't cheat as much as they could. Moreover, once they begin thinking about honesty - whether by recalling the Ten Commandments or by signing a simple statement - they stop cheating completely. In other words, when we are removed from any benchmarks of ethical thought, we tend to stray into dishonesty. But if we are reminded of morality at the moment we are tempted, then we are much more likely to be honest.

Now comes the factor of cash versus objects. They repeat the same experiment, but this time, instead of rewarding correct answers with money, they reward participants with tokens, which they then exchange for money. In other words, the cash is at one remove.

The results are salutary: when given the chance to cheat and the reward is in tokens (not real money), the average rate of cheating doubled. Not only this, but a proportion of those in the token group cheated all the way or as much as was possible (claiming all correct answers).

This means that not only did the tokens "release" people from some of their moral constraints, but for quite a few of them, the extent of the release was so complete that they cheated as much as was possible.

Ariely discusses a number of possible uses for this research, along with the broad caution that our current trend towards a cashless society might hold some distinct disadvantages.
His finding also translate into our everyday relationship with money: it is easier to cheat ourselves when we deal in credit or bank-account-numbers, not cash. Before you convince yourself that you can spend your savings on that new TV, or that adding the extra magazine and chocolate won't add too much to the grocery bill, try paying for that desired object in cash (or even just picturing the cash). I guarantee you will see the purchase differently and, if you are saving for something else, it might just stop you cheating on your own goals.
I'm considering trying it out on my boys: keeping their pocket money in cash so they can see how much they've saved - or how much they plan to spend. Watch this space... 

Reading right to the end

I finally finished reading a book that's been on my shelf for a few years. Called "Incognito", it has the sub-title "the secret lives of the brain" and its author David Eagleman sets out to address such questions as why (or how) your foot hits the brake-pedal even before you are consciously aware of danger ahead.
Some of the material is reasonably straightforward and easy to grasp; other parts - especially where science meets philosophy, as in one section about blame and justice - well, other parts are harder and require concentrated swathes of reading-time that I don't often have. I just couldn't seem to manage to get to the end.


The strange thing was that, when I picked up the book again, determined to finish it, I discovered that I had almost finished; in fact, the final chapter was left, and it was a true "concluding" chapter in that it summed up all the key ideas in the book. I felt both relieved and pleased, and at the same time a bit annoyed at myself: I had stopped just before the end. As I write that down, I realise it's something - a phenomenon - I've read about elsewhere: that we sometime give up just before we are actually about to reach our goal.

That's quite a strange discovery: in completing the book, I not only received a re-cap of all the main points, but I received a reminder of a quite different lesson altogether.

Your brain is much, much more complicated than you realize.
And you are much, much closer to your goal than you think you are.

Disquieting reassurance

An alarm system is supposed to make me feel safer, isn't it? Why then does part of me feel less secure?

We had an alarm system installed today, and after the installers had tested it and showed us how it worked and driven away, I found myself feeling upset and a bit shaken.

I have never felt the need of an alarm system - still do not, actually. Our area is very safe and quiet, and I never feel anxious when on my own at home. We do have burglar guards on the windows (lovely "clear bars") and security gates on the doors; but you can open our garden gate and walk up the front door, which I like. More and more, we are cut off from each other behind gates and walls and electric fences, so I like bucking the trend and staying accessible.

What changed? My dear husband had the opportunity to travel overseas, and arranged for an alarm system to help protect his precious family while he is away. After some debate and after downsizing the original quote, we agreed on a simple, effective system and he boarded his plane, leaving me to see to the installation of the system and learn how to operate it.

So why the negative emotions? I feel it goes something like this:

If I have an alarm system, it must mean there is something to be alarmed about - something against which I and my family need to be protected. Admitting an alarm system admits too that the world is not as safe as we like or pretend. It doesn't quite go so far as to invite attack; but it admits the possibility.

It is this admission that has me uneasy and sad when you might expect me to feel relieved and reassured. I am alarmed, dear friends, by the alarm.

A splash of orange paint

Choices can be stressful! When the opportunity arose to repaint our entire living area, I agonized over the colour: keep the light, bright yellow that attracted me to the house in the first place, or tone it down? In the end, I toned down, but stayed with yellow; and it works well.
Next was the choice of something BRIGHT for my new study-area: two walls in a corner of our new bedroom. Friends encouraged me, gave practical help about where to get a paint sample. My husband painted on the trial colour, Touch of Sun; and now I have two bright orange sections of wall to inspire and energize me when I work.

Somehow, this venture into colour-choice has enlarged and changed my perceptions. It's as if the splash of orange has lit up many areas of my being, including the spiritual. I am more confident in my own creativity and personal taste; and have been more open to God-moments (such as offering to pray for someone, or inviting a new acquaintance to church).

Such a visible affirmation of a good choice - the walls in their new paint, whether pale yellow or bright orange - reaches deep into one's psyche, sending down roots of confidence and spreading upwards into openness-to-change, with side-shoots of sheer pleasure.

I'm not quite suggesting that you splash on some orange paint (although it's not a bad idea!); but I do hope you will take time to recognise and revisit the positive choices you've made over the years, and to reach towards some new ones. And who knows, maybe there is a new paint colour among those choices ahead!

I'll never fit into that!

"Keren, this is YOU!" "Goodness, Anthea, I'll never fit into that!"

It is late morning and the four of us - Anthea, Jackie, Rachael and I - have just had a leisurely breakfast. We meet regularly to enjoy each other's company and stay connected; a group of girl-friends who all have God at the centre of their busy lives, and whom God has wisely knitted together. We laugh a lot and depart again feeling loved and cherished.

This morning our breakfast venue is an old house whose three sections comprise the coffee shop, dress-hire, and upmarket second-hand clothes. Browsing the clothes, we begin in the kids' section, but soon drift across to the racks of lovely, gently-used, designer clothes. There are soft leather boots, cute hats, every length of jacket, blouses and dresses of every colour...There is even a room full of men's clothes. We look, touch, exclaim, encourage... And then Anthea finds the "little black number": a simple, fitted dress that falls in soft folds, with a glittery embossed pattern.

She is adamant that it will fit me; everyone else joins in. I appeal to the shop-owner: "But it looks like a size 10!" She agrees. But the others insist: I must try it on. Laughing, disbelieving, I do so, sure it will NOT fit.

But, gentle reader, my perception of my own body is WRONG. My dear friends are RIGHT: the beautiful dress does indeed fit, like a glove.

I am still trying to assimilate the mental shift caused by that dress. Can our perception of ourselves be so very wrong? What else do I "see" about myself that is incorrect? - that does not match reality, the facts of "me"?

God is gracious; He puts people around us who show us our true selves; and he himself calls us "friend". Won't you join me in "fitting into" that image of yourself, like I fitted into that dress? Be clothed in this truth: you are indeed a friend of God.

The man I never met: Gugu Zulu

So here I am, weeping over someone I never knew...
What is THAT about?

Well, in part it is about how a voice on the radio becomes your friend. He comes into your home, bright and cheery, and gives you a connection to a world you would not otherwise enter. In Gugu Zulu's case, he commentated on all sorts of motor sport - for me, a link to childhood days when my dad and I used to watch Grand Prix together on TV.

Gugu Zulu was also a local boy "made good" - a rally champion and later TV commentator in whose success everyone somehow shared - we were glad that this man had done so well.

And he was simply a nice guy. His life should have been longer, reached more people; he should have been there to see his child grow up...

Part of the tears are anger too, at this loss of one life.

He died doing something he had planned for and was excited about: a climb up Kilimanjaro, in honour of Mandela, who was surely his hero, as he is many of ours.

Maybe, once we stop weeping, we can honour Gugu Zulu: by being kinder, laughing more, and going after our dreams.

His was a life well-lived.

http://www.wheels24.co.za/Motorsport/gallery-gugu-zulu-20160718

Bubbling over...or bubbling under...

Create, create, create! - do something, sing something, paint or draw or plant or knit or tidy up - just DO something with that feeling of... of... what, exactly? Words like "fizzing" come to mind; but that sounds joyous and uncontained, and this feeling is not those things. It is deeper, stronger, and even, perhaps, darker. When the need to create is unmet - the thing not drawn, the poem not written, the page left blank - that creative urge turns muddy, sours my thoughts.

YET... yet... it does not, will not, leave. The staying-power of the need to be creative: THAT is new. In the past, it has gripped me for a day, or perhaps two; now, it has stayed for a week. I feel as if I am missing some clue as to WHAT this impulse is urging me towards - what is it that I must do, to satisfy it? "Start writing a book" - yes, but what about? I have so many ideas, yet none seems able to bear the weight of that word "book". "So write a chapter - see what happens!" Yes, well, maybe that would work... Maybe just writing this page is a key, a turn of the kaleidoscope that will reveal the next pattern...

A kaleidoscope of serendipity

I am about to start job-sharing.
I am about to start job-sharing with one of my dearest friends.
I am about to start job-sharing with one of my dearest friends at a time when I need extra income.
I am about to start job-sharing with one of my dearest friends at a time when I need extra income and she needs a break from her job.


Each time I turn the kaleidoscope through which I view this piece of my life, a new, positive aspect appears.

I'm sure there will be times when I don't "enjoy" the job - invoicing, checking statements, and so on.
I'm sure there will be times when my friend and I misunderstand each other, or have conflicting needs.

I am also sure that God has provided this opportunity, and that THAT will sustain us both in the hard times, and energize us in the easier times, and bring peace (fruitful living) all round.

Easy Easter

This Easter has almost slipped by unnoticed. Shops are open, it is the middle of the school holidays - just another long weekend, with time to plan a family get-together.

When I was growing up, Easter was an occasion. The choir practiced new songs, the priest wore a different colour robe (vestments?), there was a build-up to Good Friday with its austerity and sorrow, followed by a real sense of celebration on Easter Sunday when "The angel rolled the stone away". Even the songs were different and special, more meaningful because only sung on this one occasion.

I fully understand the idea of celebrating the Cross and the resurrection "every day"; yet also see some sense in this one, special weekend when everyone - Christian or not - pauses to reflect.

I am sad that my children don't know some of the glorious Easter hymns I learned - songs full of truth and triumph, like this one:

Low in the grave he lay, Jesus my Saviour, waiting the coming day, Jesus my Lord.

Then up from the grave He arose, with a mighty triumph oe'r His foes!

 He arose victorious from the dark domain, and He lives forever with His saints to reign; 

He arose, He arose, Hallelujah! Christ arose!