Magpie Blessing

In anxious reverie, I sit and await

Pronouncements from on high that will settle my fate

When suddenly my attention lands

On a blur of monochrome which, with sleight of hand

Conjures up, from the very top of the tree,

Words that trap me;

My hopes for today, my dreams of tomorrow

Muffled, now, by echoing chatter…

One for sorrow.

Beating wildly then suddenly stilled,

My heart plummets fast;

Is this the cue to sing my last?

A swan song of defeat,

A bitter finale,

Tethering me to the inevitable finally?

A thud as my flight of fancy hits the ground,

Not a sound;

Just the stillness and sickness of overwhelming dread.

Hope is dead!

And yet are not two sparrows, though their worth is small,

Known and loved by the creator of all?

And if this is so, as my faith would dictate

Then what of this bird with feathers of purple-blue agate?

Could striking beauty, a jewel of the earth

Bestow curses with such chattering mirth?

Beauty holds no proof of truth, I know

For the Bible tells me so.

But here and now, God speaks to my heart

There is no cursing in this art.

For curses exist not in feathers of coal

But in superstition and lore whose primary role

Seeks to explain the harshness of life

To rationalise trouble and justify strife.

And sometimes, because we seek meaning with human eyes

What is actually blessing seems to comprise

A curse.

And so this verse, imperfect but true,

Says when that is so

Hold on to hope and don’t let go.

There will be a way, no matter how dark

It seems. There will be some spark

Which lights a fire to guide the way

And you will soar through the night to the breaking of day.

Remember the time that darkness prevailed

Curses seemed victorious

And goodness failed.

Defeat and desolation held their sway

Until the third day.

New Shoes

New Shoes

How can you foretell a person’s forever?

Not in tea-leaves, but laces and buckles and leather.

The shoes on our feet reflect the street,

Not just our cred but the path we tread.

You wouldn’t wear your dancing shoes

To mow the lawn or change a fuse.

And football boots would never do,

For garden parties or cleaning the loo.

The journeys we take require consideration;

Destination and footwear demand calibration.

Shoe-choosing is a momentous affair;

Your direction is set by the shoes that you wear.

And shoe-change exacts when your style is stamped on;

You can’t just kick them off and imagine them gone.

The problem with all this is, of course…

That the shoes we wear first are not ours by choice.

Our tiny toddling feet are measured with precision,

Then squashed into the shoe-mould of another person’s vision.

We have our picture taken for the scrapbook back at home,

Like a legal affidavit or commandment set in stone.

At first the fit recedes beneath our joy at starting rite,

Then little toes begin to pinch and straps feel far too tight.

Our feet have dreams of firemen’s boots, or movie-star high heels,

But we must walk our given path no matter how we feel.

There’s no point coveting others’ shoes, or the paths where they’ve been put.

We’ve a lifetime to endure it, so best learn to love your rut.

This is how it feels sometimes; the future bleak and hope all lost

But there’s one who, for the sake of shoes, was prepared to pay the cost.

A man walked forth in sandals, telling those he met to follow,

But his path led up a rocky hill to a place of pain and sorrow.

It was there his journey seemed to end, and everything went black.,

But soon he rose and conquered death, beating a brand new track.

And the track provides access for everyone, to shoes of all colours and styles.

It traverses the places you’ve dreamed of, stretching for infinite miles.

There are rocks on the path in places, and plenty of undulations,

But he’ll walk beside and be your guide, on your journey of liberation.

So if your shoes give you calluses, and your heels are rubbed and sore.

No appeal in the journey’s ending; no fork in the road to explore.

Then follow the man who wore sandals and nails, who will lead you to where you belong,

With shoes of redemption you’ll sing as you walk, beloved, as your journey song.

Jo Child

This poem isn’t really about shoes.

For me it’s about sometimes feeling that other people’s expectations of us, our past mistakes and our lack of self-esteem are things which hold us back in life. They can make us feel like we’re wearing entirely the wrong shoes to go where we’d like to go. We want to go dancing in beautiful high heels but we are wearing wellies. So we feel stuck.

However, this poem is also about hope. Even when we feel like we are wearing completely the wrong shoes to go where we’d like to go, because other people’s expectations are driving us, or we’ve made stupid mistakes and mucked things up, God  can give us new shoes. He gives us second chances and helps us to start again on a more positive path. 

If you feel like you are wearing the wrong shoes, for whatever reason, you could say this prayer:

Dear God,

You created me for an awesome purpose. I don’t have to be what other people expect me to be. And my mistakes don’t have to hold me back. I can fulfil my destiny because you are for me and not against me. You forgive my mistakes and make me new. Thank you God. Help me to walk in ‘new shoes’ for a new purpose, with confidence and trust,

Amen

#aplaceatthetable

#aplaceatthetable

If life were a story of tables, I wonder where would yours start?

A table of contents might be helpful, or a navigation table-chart.

In the beginning was a white table-tray. A glutinous orange chair.

A yellow dumper truck ferrying food, scattering green peas everywhere.

Then there was a table with autumn rust leaves.

Plates afloat with lamb chop boats in watery gravy seas.

A Christmasbirthdayanniversary, everyday table for four;

A table of strained solidarity, a table pre the divorce.

Grandma’s formica-topped table always wore its Sunday best. 

Pickled cucumber and boiled eggs. Roasted ham and chicken legs.

On this floury fifties altar to love and boiled fruit cake

I did homework, finished jigsaws, ate my tea, learned how to bake.

Then, suddenly, without warning, both table and Grandma were gone.

And in terms of this table-tale… then there was none.

A life without tables is very strange indeed;

Who now were my people, what now was my creed?

The thing about a table which isn’t always laid out clear

It’s the centrifuge that draws us, the bond that keeps us near.

And no place at the table means no place to belong

Others may invite you but you somehow feel all wrong.

Fine crockery and linen berate your lack of worth

You really can’t sit there dear; the food here costs the earth.

So, alone you sit, in silence, and eat your paltry fayre

Will there ever be a table laid for me, spills out despair?

A man once threw a party. The best food and finest wine.

But his friends, engaged in both business and love, declined his offer to dine.

So his servants scoured streets and alleyways and invited the blind and the lame.

And they all found a place at his table, everyone seated the same.

And all the food was paid for, through his love and gift of himself.

There was no gratuity added, no need for position or wealth.

It was here that I found myself seated, here I finally found myself home

Here I found love and fellowship; no longer afraid or alone.

This table belongs to Jesus. My God, king, brother, friend.

And the table stretches both far and wide, with no beginning or end.

There is space for you at the table. No matter your rags, wrong or blight.

He will clothe you in richest garments, pour balm on your wounds and set right

All your crooked and cracked, dusty pieces. All the bits you’re afraid to display

He embraces each one whilst in darkness, and brings them into the warm light of day.

So come now, a little bit closer. Come now and sit for a time,

Receive food of His love and belonging, the banquet of bread and of wine.

See your name on his hands, stretched before you, there since the beginning of time.

His eyes say you’re known, loved and belong here

His words say….

You’re mine. You are mine.

J. Child

March 2019

Life can sometimes feel a bit like a series of tables.

Some tables make us feel welcome and at home.

We sit and chat, eat the foods that we love; we feel that we belong.

Others can make us feel nervous. Are we wearing the right clothes? What do we do with all those different knives and forks? What do we have to say to people like these?

In the Bible Jesus tells the story of a banquet.

A man invited his friends to a fine dinner but they were too busy to come. Instead of cancelling the dinner he sends out his servants to invite anyone and everyone from the streets and alleyways of the city; the poor, the blind and the lame.

In telling this story, Jesus is saying that the welcome of God is not just for those who are respectable; it is for every single person, no matter how rich or poor or what issues they might have.

Because of this you need never feel that you don’t belong at the table. God owns every table and he is always with you. He has made you precious, unique and worthy. You belong wherever you choose to sit.

If you don't know the welcome of God but would like to find out more, why not find an Alpha course near you and sit at a table of discovery. 

www.alpha.org

In the Morning

In the Morning by J Child

Standing in the blackness,

The cold and rain showing mocking restraint

I wonder how I got here again

Did I, all this time, remain?

Held in abeyance?

Fearing to embrace the chance

Of a different path?

 

Enclosed now by a substantial gate,

Five bars diverting my fate

Not so my gaze

Held by the incandescent haze.

Somebody left on the light

Illuminating the night

With all the darling days now dimmed.

 

Stagnant, I stand below

A captive to the sulphur glow

And yet I know

That there is a season for everything

And time passes fleeting on her feathered wings;

I must now go.

A new day on the horizon is dawning

And hope grows with the burgeoning light

For, although weeping endures for a night

Such joy cometh in the morning.

 

 

 

 

 

A Reflection on Journeying

In my younger days I was a confident driver; age, however, has remedied this. My growing unease regarding the hazards of the road has been further intensified by moving to the country.  In my head, rural driving is all about the breeze blowing through my hair as Classic FM produces a perfect pastoral accompaniment to the vistas before me.  In reality, undulating roads punctuated by hairpin bends and populated almost entirely by maniacal 4x4 drivers and thundering agricultural traffic render driving a disconcerting and rather less than pleasant experience.  Today, as I was proceeding down one such road, I began to ponder the reasons why fear had taken root so deeply, like Japanese knotweed in my driving consciousness. 

I hope I don't lose my licence for admitting this, but my problem, you see, is all about
focus.  I focus on the other traffic.  I watch the lumbering HGV as it swaggers towards me. 
I have my eye on that Range Rover which is clearly just waiting for the most opportune
moment to overtake the tractor and engage us in a head-on collision.  I am constantly searching my peripheral vision for potential vehicular hazards.  To some extent I would consider that this is a feature of safe driving; the degree to which it causes me to grip the steering wheel, palms sweating and pulse racing, however, might be considered less so.

The answer to my driving dilemma, I have discovered, is to concentrate on the road.  I have no influence over the choices that other motorists make; I only have volition over my own
decisions.  I must  therefore take my eyes off the looming lorry and focus on carefully navigating the road before me, allowing plenty of space for said vehicle to pass. Whilst this approach doesn't make driving an entirely stress free activity for me, it certainly decreases the potentially dangerous blind panic with which I can become gripped.

And so, today, as I nonchalantly passed a rather cumbersome and terrifying road giant, an epiphany was born.

Life is like that.  There are threats to our safe passage and obstacles to overcome.  There is fear that grips our hearts and paralyses our gaze on the foe.  That foe which, like vehicles on a country road, comes in a multitude of shapes and sizes.  The big 'C' word, the threat of redundancy, the fear of rejection, the ocean of uncertainty, past abuses which haunt us.  They stand in our way. They make our steering wobble just a little.  We fear we are losing control.  They loom large and terrifying.  What if we should crash and burn? And so we sweat and our hearts pound and joy is muffled by terror.  Or we sit, safe in the layby of life, watching others move forwards, towards goals we had cherished, all the while becoming bitter and blame-full.

My life is like that.  So many roaring lions that paralyse.  So many seemingly insurmountable obstacles.  They dominate my focus as I lurch this way and that; so much effort to remain upright yet so little progress in moving forward.


I wonder what would happen if I focused on the journey.  Focused on just the next short distance of road.  Focused on pressing forward.  Focused on the Way (John 14:6).  The truth is that I do wonder because, up until now,  I have always sat in that layby, bemoaning my lack of progress.  And I find myself now at a pivotal point in my life.  A middle aged crisis, perhaps.  If I do not press on from this point forwards, I may miss the 'good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do'(Ephesians 2:10).  I may never fulfil my unique purpose in life. And I wonder, how many others have seen that purpose in the distance and never taken hold of it,... and what the kingdom would look like if we actually believed in Christ as our light and our guide?  If we took Jesus' hand and scooted on past those great big scary juggernauts,  all the while looking up into his face and revelling in the unsurpassed wideness of his love for us?

I want to believe.  Lord help my unbelief.  Help me, from this day forward, to focus on you, your power and your purpose, rather than on the festering insecurities which have eaten away at my soul and made me impotent in your kingdom.  And just as I must move my focus from the oncoming traffic, help me to think less on the spiritual journeys of others and how mine is comparable.  My vision must be centred upon you, 'fixing our eyes on Jesus, the pioneer and perfecter of faith' (Hebrews 12:2).

An epiphany is one thing.  A living faith is another.  Come walk with me as I seek to discover what that faith looks like in my life, and how it might shine forth His greatness and glory.

Jo x



Philippians 3:13-15 ESV / 14                     
Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus. Let those of us who are mature think this way, and if in anything you think otherwise, God will reveal that also to you.

A Poem for Monday

Leafdrop by J. Child

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Revelation, it seems, is not limited to mountaintops.

A hilltop will do.  At least to begin.

There we stop, wombfruit taking my hand and nestling in.

Newly shorn, the hayfield rolls away into the mist.

He gazes saucer eyed and heart-ful.

I gaze, grieving.

Heart-sick for the swathes of gold, given way to stubble and new green.

The horizon is vast and wide; a map of promise unrolling before us.

So much beauty in hues of green and gold.

Bitterblind I see none.

The hay is gone.

 

Inexorable childhood he tumbles on, and on,

Crunching copper, whooping joy as leafdrops

come and come.

Hay subsides to leaflife in my pondering pursuit

Relics now,

Like so many digital files and status updates.

A catalogue of memories of seasons past.

Is it a dance of graceful retreat

That they beat?

Or are they fluttering freedom flags, full of hope?

But hope for what?

To fertilise the orchard floor

And no more?

 

Were I a leaf, I should be

A petiole pinching miser, no doubt

Like King Midas and his gold

I would not let go, would wait it out.

But if the leaf does not fall, then what?

Creeping cold and insidious rot?

A bundle of sticks beneath my arm,

Carrying nature with me

To keep a child calm.

No ordinary sticks you see

But weapons of heroes from imaginary lands

For me a burden

Mine enemies to bludgeon

Or seek relish in self flagellation?                                                                                            

 

Small knowledge is such wisdom.

Open hands and life for the taking,

The grasping, clenching fist holds nothing,

Even a palm’s blood seeps through fingers twisted

Gnarled by hatred.

I breathe deep,

Must let the past sleep;

Rouse myself to the possibilities

Of love and grace and all his tender mercies.

Like a child I must become

To enter his kingdom.