I’ll be there for you…

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My husband has a particular laugh that only comes out in the presence of his closest friends. It’s a deep belly laugh, almost a shout of joy. But when I hear it, I detect more than fun being had. Certainly, there will have been some reminiscence of past mischief and a re-telling, for the umpteenth time, of a favourite story. But through all the noisy jovial chatter I detect something else. I hear freedom, trust, safety and history; a place to be at home.

That’s friendship at its best, isn’t it?

It’s International Friendship Day and so I have been thinking about my relationships today and counting my blessings. I’ve always enjoyed my friendships but in the last few years I’ve come to appreciate many of my closest friends on a much deeper level. As I’ve walked through all kinds of uncertainty over a long period of time, they have accompanied me each step of the way, often with prayer, cake, acceptance, wine and wisdom – all of which I have been in need of at various points! They have given me a place to feel safe with my questions and doubts, and their companionship has given me strength to get up from my knees and keep walking on more than a few occasions. On days when you don’t know how to pray anymore, or you are tired and frustrated asking God for the same things with only silence as a reply, it’s an extraordinary comfort to know that there are others holding your faith for you, being faithful friends in a truly precious way. I am thankful beyond words for those people. They hold a very special place in my heart.

Experiencing that kind of friendship challenges me to think about the kind of friend that I am in return. Do I give of myself, even on the days when I am feeling particularly selfish? Do I make the time on days when I am tired and busy? Am I short and impatient rather than understanding and caring, when someone is dealing with the same issue as last month, and the month before? On my worst days, I certainly feel that I receive friendship better than I give it. Perhaps we all do from time to time, and it’s the very sign of true friendship that lets those days go, understood and forgiven. I hope so.

And so today, as I stop and give thanks for this area of my life where I feel rich beyond measure, I also commit myself to being a better friend. The kind of friend who, to borrow some words from the book of Romans, is joyful in hope, patient in affliction and faithful in prayer. A friend who will be devoted in my relationships and will honour others above myself, rejoicing with those who rejoice and weeping with those who weep.

It’s a high standard to be held to, but having been on the receiving end of this beautiful picture of friendship, I’m up for the challenge.

Perspective is Everything

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“I never tired of looking out the window. I don’t think any astronaut ever has, or will. Every chance we have, we float over to see what’s changed since we last went round the Earth. There’s always something new to see because the planet itself is rotating, so each orbit takes us over different parts of it. Every crossing of the Pacific, every landfall, brings different weather and vegetation and lighting. And as the seasons change, sunlight, snow and new plant life creates new patterns the world over.”

(Chris Hadfield in the introduction to his book                                                             You Are Here: Around the World in 92 Minutes)

I’ve been thinking a lot about perspective in the last few months.

My husband and I are trying to make a big life decision in the midst of what has not been the easiest of times. There are days where I feel surrounded by questions, frustrations and unanswered prayers. On the days that are the most trying (and there was one of those this very week) I feel as though I am slumped on the ground with pieces of jigsaw around me, none of which seem to fit together.

God what are you doing in this situation? Why are you silent? Why is this so difficult? Why has it gone on for so long? And why don’t any of these pieces seem to make sense?!

On those days I need to get some perspective, to see things from the heavens.

“For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.” Isaiah 55

When I was a little girl, about 4 years old, I was out with my family one summers day. As I skipped along the curb in my red open-toed sandals, I tripped and fell, cutting my toe open. While I sat in a crumpled heap on the curb, crying like the sorry mess that I was, I looked up to see my Dad bending down to scoop me up and put me on his shoulders.

I remember very clearly that, although my foot hurt and my toe was still bleeding, although my cheeks were stained with my tears, knowing that I was in my Daddy’s arms meant I was safe. I could trust him for what came next.

Being lifted into the arms of our heavenly Father doesn’t make the questions go away. We can still sit with the same uncertainty, sometimes the same pain, illness, silence or longing. We don’t always get healing or answers or even cryptic signposts. But what we often get is the peace that comes with the perspective of our Daddy’s shoulders, to know that we are safe and that He is good and we can trust Him, even when we don’t understand.

The important thing to remember is to look up, to lift our hands to the One who’ll bend down to pick us up and carry us through. While we stay slumped on the floor our perspective is only that which surrounds us. The longer we stare at the question marks the more disheartened we become. Each day we have a choice; to sit in our crumpled heap or to lift our tear-stained faces to heaven and ask for His perspective.

Today I choose to look up. Remind me again tomorrow will you?

The preacher you probably won’t meet this summer

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It’s summer festival season in the Christian world. I have just finished working at one and will shortly be heading to another. Up and down the land we will gather together in muddy fields to worship and hear speakers who have been brought in representing all kinds of churches and ministries, from across the country and around the world. We’ll all have a great time worshipping Jesus in our wellies and being inspired by some good teaching.

But there’s something bothering me. In fact it’s been bothering me for a while now.

The people we invite to speak at our festivals, events and conferences have indeed got something to say. But let’s be honest, they aren’t just there because of how they can preach. They are there because they’ll sell tickets. They have written books, have oodles of Twitter followers or lead the latest exciting and growing ministry to have grabbed our attention. And so we’ll deem them worthy of our attention and the ticket price.

Don’t get me wrong. None of those things in and of themselves are wrong. And I have been someone who has helped to plan conferences and weighed up who we think are good speakers with something to say, and who people will actually come to hear – because they aren’t always the same thing. But what about the people who are living out faith in the obscure, out-of-the-way places? Those who haven’t written books or blogs, have never heard of Twitter but have stories to tell that would humble us, teach us and leave us hungering for more of Jesus?

Last summer I met one such man. He probably won’t ever be asked to speak on a main stage or platform at one of our gatherings, so I’ll tell you about him now and the impact he had on me.

I met Pastor Timothy in Poipet, Cambodia, where he serves within a ministry called the Cambodia Hope Organisation (CHO). He is a small man with a big personality and an even bigger smile. He works with the tiny house churches dotted around the countryside, teaching and encouraging them, discipling new believers and singing songs about Jesus with the children. I’ve never met a man more full of the joy of the Lord.

Cambodia’s history has been a troubled one. During the mid-late 1970s the Khmer Rouge regime, under dictator Pol Pot, brutalised the country working millions to death in the Killing Fields and murdering thousands more. The young and fragile Cambodian church was decimated and remains small to this day.

Just before we went out to Cambodia two of the Khmer Rouge leadership had finally been found guilty of crimes against humanity in UN backed court proceedings and had been sentenced to life imprisonment. As we travelled out, we wondered what kind of impact this ruling would have on the people we would meet. Would it bring a long-awaited sense of justice or some kind of closure? Would there be a moment when it would be appropriate for us to ask?

One evening as I sat with Pastor Timothy at dinner the topic came up. Here was a man who had lived through his country’s darkest hour and had family members killed because of this murderous regime. How did he feel about two of its top guard being held to account for their actions? What he said next simply floored me.

He said that the Bible tells us that no one deserves heaven, but even the thief on the cross had the opportunity to respond to Jesus and be forgiven. His only concern for these men was that they should hear the good news about Christ and have the opportunity to respond.

I was speechless.

Even now as I write this, almost a year later, I am moved and challenged in a way that brings me close to tears.

What’s more, after a few moments, as the conversation moved on, Pastor Timothy was asking us to send people who could teach them more from the Bible as they were so eager to learn and knew that they needed input from people who had studied the Word and could pass on that knowledge. In my heart I wondered if there was truly anything more that anyone could really teach him. He had already grasped the outrageousness of grace and forgiveness in a way that many of us never will.

Pastor Timothy was one of several people I met on that trip whose lives and witness have stayed with me. As I left Cambodia, challenged and inspired, I reflected on the many heroes of the faith there must be, hidden around the world, following Jesus in extraordinary ways and ushering in His Kingdom in some very dark and forgotten places. How many of us could be taught something profound from their lives and example if we ever heard their stories?

One or two of them might make it to one of our conferences this summer.  But if they do they will probably be tucked away in a seminar tent, during an early morning slot or up against some much sexier topic in the programme and so will speak to twenty people.  So if you’re going to a Christian festival or event this summer, please do have an amazing time and I hope that the main speakers will bless you with their teaching and that it is a place of growth and restoration for you.

But do yourself a favour and look closely at the programme to see if there might be some hidden stories waiting for you to find. They might just be from the most impactful people you ever hear.

(Pastor Timothy having his first taste of Scottish shortbread!)045

Honouring the Honesty

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In my last job as a Christian schools worker we occasionally came together as staff within a region for a day of training and teaching. Because we met infrequently and were spread over a wide area, we didn’t know each other very well – enough to chat over coffee, share assembly ideas and frustrations with management but not much more than that. I remember an occasion when we gathered for a few minutes at the end of the day to pray with and for one another before heading our separate ways. We were a small group of around 8 and stood together in a loose circle. The person leading us asked if anyone had anything for prayer. There was a pause.And then one of the guys spoke up. It wasn’t anything to do with work, it was personal.

And painful.

Things that he and his wife were walking through that he said he’d like us to lift before God. His vulnerability was so brave, so bold. And it gave permission for raw honesty in a group where a professional veneer was the norm. As a result two other people in the group opened up about some very difficult and distressing things that were happening within their families. We were able to stand together as family and have a beautiful and intimate time with God, carrying each other’s burdens, if only for a short while. We went home that day having shared something precious.

What if he had kept quiet? Decided that to share so openly was too much of a risk? That we weren’t a group who did that kind of thing? Then not only he, but probably others in that group would have walked away still carrying the weight of all their troubles. And we as their brothers and sisters would not have had the privilege of bringing them before our Father and asking Him to pour all of heaven’s resources into their lives and circumstances.

But here’s what really bothers me. How many other times have I been in prayer with friends or colleagues, house group members or fellow kids workers, where people have had such need of prayer and comfort but have decided to keep quiet? It’s too personal to share this, it isn’t really the time or place. What will they all think? Can I trust them to pray and then keep it to themselves? Friends we are told to weep with those who weep and mourn with those who mourn for a reason – because we cannot do this journey alone. We need people to pray for us when we cannot pray for ourselves, and people to help carry our pain when it is too much to bear.

And we also need to be those who can be depended upon to hold those sacred moments only before the Lord, without the need to share them for further prayer with others who haven’t been told. I like to think of myself as a person who can be trusted, but when I take a long hard look at myself there have definitely been times where prayer has been the smokescreen to share something that has not been mine to tell. And that’s an ugly truth to admit.

In order to cultivate a space in all of our relationships where honesty is encouraged and practised, we need to honour that honesty as a fragile gift. We need to be bold enough to speak it, and gentle enough to nurture it. We need to be willing to share what is raw, and disciplined enough to guard what has been entrusted to us.

I feel deeply challenged to hold honesty with a new level of respect and care. Will you join me?

A collar of gold

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When I was in my early twenties and in my first job in London, my Mum’s dear friend Rosemary gave me a gold necklace.

Rosemary is an amazing lady with great stories to tell. She lived and worked in Belfast in the middle of the Troubles, served the Lord in China ministering to students and finally met her husband when she was in her fifties and had just popped down to the local shops to run some errands! She has battled with illness and heartbreaking loss but retains a sense of joy, a wicked laugh and wonderful creativity and style.

The gold necklace she gave me was a flat ribbon chain and sat beautifully across my collar bone when I put it on. At the time it was only one of a couple of special pieces of jewellery that I owned, along with a gold dress watch that I had inherited from my Granny after she died. I didn’t really know what to do with good jewellery at that age, unsure of how or where to wear it, and didn’t ever feel that I had any occasions special enough to merit taking them out of their safe place in the trinket box.

As Rosemary placed the chain around my neck she told me it was “a collar of gold for the daughter of the King”. I must have looked a little unsure of the title, because she followed up with the words, “That’s what you are. You’re a princess, the daughter of the King of Kings”.

I knew that God was my heavenly Father and I was his child, but I’d never thought about it in those terms before. A daughter of the King. Royal.

A year or two later our house was burgled while we were all away over Easter weekend. Of course the only two things of mine that were taken were the gold watch and necklace – the only pieces of any worth to the house-breakers, and the only pieces prized by my heart. I was devastated, both by the loss and by the waste. Why hadn’t I worn them more often? Now, nearly twenty years later I know that I’d open that jewellery box and rock that collar of gold on any given Monday, just because.

But as I’ve reflected on it I’ve come to realise that I do wear it every day, because the gift that Rosemary gave me was so much more than a necklace. She reminded me, in the most beautiful way, of who I am and of how my heavenly Father sees me each and every day. She reminded me of my identity in the Kingdom of God. The gift she gave was one that, as a young woman, I needed to hear and have planted in me. It’s a royal identity I have carried with me ever since, and although there have been times I’ve let the royal robes  slip from my shoulders a little, no thief can steal it from me.

My prayer for each and every person who reads this is that you would know that you are a daughter or son of the King of Kings and that you walk in that identity every moment of your day. Some of us have never had a Rosemary to speak that over our lives, so let me tell you now: You are loved, beyond measure. Your heavenly Father is the Creator of the Universe, the Lord of Lords and the King of Kings and he calls you his child and brings you into his family, his kingdom to take your place and to gain a mighty inheritance. That is who you are. That is your true identity.

Many people will try to steal it from you. They may come with harsh words, mocking jibes or disappointment. They may pour doubt or scorn on your gifts, talents or abilities. They may slander your name or speak false things about you or to you. But your heavenly Father says that you are his child. You are a Prince. You are a Princess. And no one can take that from you. So wear that title, that identity, and stand a little taller. Hold your head up high in the confidence of who you really are. And if there’s some special jewellery hiding away in a drawer, go take it out and wear it – just because it’s Tuesday and you’re royal.

Following tail lights

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Last week I had a meeting with a girl I know to talk about a work project. I don’t know her very well, but we sat down to talk over a cup of coffee and began chatting about a few personal things – and before you could say “another round of donuts please” I had bared a small part of my soul.

I do this quite often. I’m something of an open book and it really doesn’t take too much for me to spill the beans. I’d be rubbish under interrogation. I talked about some difficult and stretching times that I’d walked through in the last couple of years, and the great joy of this particular conversation were the words that came back to me : “I know exactly what you mean, I’ve been there too.”

I love those moments.

The realisation that you’re not the only person in the world to walk this path. Others have gone ahead of you and are alive to tell the tale. They have words of wisdom and understanding to share with you and as they are offered you greedily eat them up, starving for the hope that is given.

A few months ago I was driving back from a speaking engagement in Inverness late one Sunday night. I could have stayed over, really should have stayed over, but the draw of my own bed and being home with my husband was such that, despite the snow falling I decided to risk it. Those of you familiar with the roads of Scotland will know about the A9 from Inverness. A beautiful route when the sun is shining and you’re not in a hurry, but in the darkness of winter it’s quite a different prospect. At times when there is no snow anywhere else in the country, the gates of the A9 will be closed due to several feet of white powder.

As I left Inverness with the snow starting to fall, and thinking that this drive might be a very unwise idea indeed, I made a request of God: “If it’s going to be bad, please give me someone to follow. Amen.” Several miles further on the weather really started to get serious and driving conditions were unpleasant to say the least. Just as I was beginning to get concerned I caught up with a coach that was on the road ahead of me. Thank you Jesus! So then we had a little chat, the coach driver and I. It was quite one-sided but I said some things that I needed him to know. “Ok listen up. I’m following you from here to Perth and I really need you not to go too fast so that I can keep up with you. Now drive safely and then we can all get out when we reach the end and celebrate with some high fives.” I appreciate that actually talking out loud to the driver in front makes me sound more than a little crazy, but I’m hoping that I’m not the only person in the world who does this under duress! On we drove into the night and the snow, me and my convoy. I’ve never been so thankful for a set of tail lights to follow.

At one point, probably when we were at the highest part of the mountain but really who could say,  I couldn’t see where the road was. Everything was white. If I’d been on my own I would have pulled over (if I could have found where ‘over’ even was) and just cried. Instead, with my shoulders tensed and my concentration focussed, I fixed my eyes on those two red lights at the back of the coach and didn’t dare look away. Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, the road came back down the mountain and the weather began to clear and when we reached Perth the convoy went our separate ways. No high fives – except for the little ones I did for myself in my car.

I don’t know if that coach driver knew that I was following him, but I was so glad he was there. Glad of his experience and that he could see further down the road than me. Sometimes that’s exactly what we need, on the road and elsewhere. Tail lights to follow. When the storm is raging and you can no longer see the road, when you have no idea of the right direction and all you want to do is pull over and cry, we need people to say “I know what you mean, I’ve been there.” Sometimes they are literally a few steps ahead of you in the road, just far enough for you to follow in their tire treads, and maybe not even much more sure than you of where the road actually leads – but the fact that they are there is enough.

Too often in church we try to keep up a pretence that we know where we’re going in life and the journey is all smooth and glorious, bright sunshine and clear roads. But sometimes it’s not. And in those moments of course it’s great to have people who will listen to us, who will bring us encouraging words of Scripture to hold on to and who offer to pray for us. But sometimes what we need more than anything is someone who says “Me too.” Being vulnerable is a risk. I’ve definitely had times where I’ve opened up to someone and have felt their kindness but I know they haven’t the first idea what I’m really talking about. You walk away from those conversations wondering if that person thinks you are an idiot or backsliding and in need of referal to the church pastoral team. But I’d rather be honest, because I believe that honesty, however painful or embarrassing, in the end encourages more honesty. And maybe my honesty is the set of tail lights that someone is desperate to follow.

I’ll stand with you.

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I am the daughter of not one, but two P.E. teachers. My brother is also a P.E. teacher. I am the apple that fell a little further from our family tree. I love watching sport, it’s just the taking part that I find so tiresome. This difference in our family dynamics is beautifully illustrated by the photos that adorn a bookshelf in my parents’ home. There’s a picture of my Mum as a young woman, standing proudly with a netball team. Then there’s my Dad, the embodiment of athleticism, ball in hand, sprinting down the wing of some rugby pitch of the past. My brother’s photo is of him, green tracksuited, with the Ireland Under 21 hockey squad. Stars one and all. Then there’s a picture of me, all dressed up to go to a school dance with my friends. No sporty shots of me in the family archive!

Being from this kind of family I grew up with stories of sporting folklore, particularly told by my Dad from his two favourite sports of rugby and athletics. And so it was that I came to hear of the Black Power Salute from the 1968 Mexico City Olympic Games. Two African American athletes, Tommy Smith and John Carlos, had gained first and third place in the 200metres final. It was the time of the civil rights movement and so they decided to use this opportunity on a world stage to make their own protest. And so on the podium, after receiving their medals and while their national anthem was being played, they bowed their heads and raised a black-gloved fist.

This was a shocking moment in Olympic history. The athletes were boo-ed from the stadium. But over time, as things in America began to change, these men came to be seen as heroes of the civil rights movement. They both went on to have further involvement in the field of athletics, and the image of them on the podium can be seen in certain parts of the U.S. as both a mural and a statue.

This was the story as I knew it growing up.

Until a little BBC film during the London 2012 Olympics told me the story of the other man on the podium that day, Peter Norman, the Australian who came in second.

Tommy Smith and John Carlos felt it was only right that they share with Peter Norman what they were planning, given that he would be on the stage with them. And in that moment Peter Norman had a choice. He could have said, ‘Guys, I wish you well but I’m just going to take my medal and be on my way.’

But he didn’t. He said ‘I’ll stand with you’ and he wore a badge on his tracksuit in support of the civil rights movement.  In fact, just before the medal ceremony, Smith and Carlos realised that one of them had forgotten their black gloves and for a moment thought that they wouldn’t be able to make their protest. It was Peter Norman who told them to wear one glove each and raise alternate hands.

Peter Norman went back to Australia in disgrace. Four years later, even though he ran a qualifying time, he was not selected by the Australian Athletics Federation. He never was again. And years later he died in poverty and obscurity – but Tommy Smith and John Carlos were there to carry his coffin.

Why do I tell you this story?

Because sometimes it’s too easy for us to look the other way. To say ‘It’s not my fight. There’s not really anything I can do. I wouldn’t make a different anyway.’

But throughout history those being crushed under the weight of poverty and injustice have needed others to come alongside them and say ‘I’ll make your fight my fight. I’ll add my voice to yours so that together we will both be heard. I will take what is in my hand and add it to what is in yours so that a real difference can be made’

It’s not difficult to think of situations today where people need us to stand alongside them. Cast your eye around your neighbourhood and over the newspapers and you will see injustice on a local, national and global level. In each of those moments we have a choice. We can look the other way and tell ourselves that it’s not our fight and there’s nothing we can do, or we can roll up our sleeves and get involved. We can’t do that for every cause of course, but let’s not use the excuse of there being too much and too many to let ourselves off the hook and do too little or not at all.

Who might God ask you to stand up for today?

Where might he ask you to use your voice, your influence or your resources?

Are you willing for him to interrupt your day and your plans with something that may cost you?