church

Letter to a Sister – Lunch Club

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How was your week? I cooked at Lunch Club. Usually I make a syrup sponge, but I thought I’d try something different this week, so I used tinned pears instead of syrup and added some ginger to the sponge mixture. I was a bit worried about cooking tinned pears – they might have turned to mush in the oven. It was okay. I thought it was a bit lacking in taste, tinned pears are a bit bland, but it wasn’t horrible, which is the main thing. I might try marmalade next week.

I cannot tell you how much I dislike cooking dinners for large numbers of people. However, Lunch Club is something special, and I always come home happier than when I went, even though it’s also really hard work (as you know – I believe you told me that if you ever agree to help again I should shoot you!) This week the ‘kitchen team’ were mainly men, ranging in age from about 65 to almost 80. That says it all really!

Each week we produce a healthy meal for forty people, and they pay £3:50. Some weeks we are an efficient productive team. Other weeks I feel like I have wandered on to the set of a Dad’s Army film.

I am by far the most stressed member of the team. Maybe when you have lived through a war and survived, it seems less important if the potatoes don’t cook on time. I am also the bossiest. The kitchen is inspected regularly for hygiene, so we have check lists of things to do. I am always nagging people to wash their hands ( even if they have just washed them when they used the loo, they have to wash them again when they reenter the kitchen.) They now tell me whenever I see them, “Yes Anne, I washed my hands.”

Whoever is cooking buys the food, then arrives at the church early to start preparing. Gradually the rest of the team arrive, some by bus, some via ‘Dial-a-Ride’ and some walk or drive. Everyone is pleased to see each other, so it’s quite a social time. It’s also the time when we hear about ailments. The team are mostly not young, so it’s not coughs and colds – they will quite casually mention that they “had a minor stroke in the week” or “had bit of a heart attack so had to call an ambulance.” I am always amazed how they seem to take in their stride, to carry on with life as soon as they feel well enough.

They also laugh a lot. At some point, before the ‘oldies’ arrive (who are actually no older than the team some weeks) we have a quick prayer. This is always more enthusiastic when I am the cook (need all the help we can get!)  When I got there this week, one of the team had rolled up his trousers to show some injury, which led to a general discussion of scars until I called them to order and suggested that we should get on with praying. Slightly worried as to where the conversation might lead. Like I said, I am the bossy one.

This week one of the church members popped in with his little boy. The oldies love to see children. They are, I have noticed, quite competitive with how many great-grandchildren they have. I can’t really chat to them when I’m cooking (too busy trying to not burn anything.) But when I’m not the actual cook, I love listening to them, they have so many tales about growing up during the war, living in a world that has changed so much.

I love how enthusiastic they still are, how they will arrive excited that dog-racing has started in the next town, or there’s a new club they can join, or even a new knitting pattern has arrived. Their obvious enjoyment of life makes me realise that growing old doesn’t have to be scary, there are still deep friendships and loud laughter. Especially laughter. Friday lunch times are always some of the happiest, and most exhausting, hours of my week.

Take care,
Love, Anne x

PS. Going on a trip to Poland. Never been there before.

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Letter to a Sister – Football Quiz

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We organised a Football Quiz. Not really my kind of event, but apparently there are several people who enjoy football, so we hoped some ‘non church’ people might come and realise that we’re not too scary after all. (I was going to write “not too odd”, but I thought that might be stretching things a bit!)

So, we asked our friend who is a professional footballer if he would come (do you say ‘plays’ football if someone does it professionally? Not sure, feels like wrong verb) We persuaded brother he would like to make up some questions and got some fliers printed up. We held it in the church hall, people registered their teams online in advance and brought their own snacks and drinks. We didn’t charge, but there were collecting tubs for donations to Tearfund.

It was a good event. This was partly because brother did an actually rather brilliant quiz and partly because it seems quite a few people are rather keen to meet footballer friend (Julian Speroni, who plays in goal for Crystal Palace FC.) Husband was on hand to sort logistics, Minister did the introducing and interviewing Julian bit and I dutifully hovered to help where needed. (I wouldn’t exactly say that football is possibly the most boring game ever – but I did take a book to read….)

When we arrived at church, it had been repainted and all the internal signs had been removed. Might have caused confusion toilet wise. We have three toilets at our church, with a middle one for people wanting to change babies’ nappies or needing disabled supports. I therefore made three signs. Decided to label them ‘Ladies’, Gents’ and ‘Undecided’. Was slightly worried I might forget to move them before the service on Sunday (some church members don’t always get my humour) but it was fine.

Mum had advertised the event for us, and some of her friends made a team. They recognised me and asked which person was brother. I pointed to Julian (he’s better looking than brother, thought it might improve our general family impression.) They just looked confused, so I think they knew I was lying.

After the quiz, Julian was interviewed, then fielded questions from the audience (about his salary, place on the team and retirement plans. People didn’t hold back! ) His talk was good (didn’t read my book for that bit.) He talked about training in Argentina and sending a video of his playing to other teams. He was offered a place in Dundee, so moved over. He said that learning English was a challenge, with a Scottish teacher, and Italian and Chinese fellow students to practise conversation with!

He also talked about how he attended an Alpha course, how he realised that God is real and has a plan for his life. Even professional footballers need God.

I guess that’s the whole point really. To me, Julian is ‘just a bloke’, it seems very strange that people would want his autograph or to shake his hand. God sees past all that, he knows that Julian is ‘just a bloke’ too, one that he loves and wants to help and give direction for his life. Just like us, we are ‘just people’ too, underneath all our make-up and talents and insecurities. We need God too.

The quiz had a winning team. They won a football shirt, signed by all the players. Never mind, if they wash it on a hot wash it will probably come clean again.

Have a good week,
Take care,
Love, Anne x

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Letters to a Sister : 31

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We had a Christmas Fair at church last week. A bit early perhaps but I guess it avoids clashing with every other Christmas Fair/Fayre/Event that the whole world feels obligated to host.

I am actually not a great lover of Christmas Fairs (in case you didn’t guess that already.) I’m not sure if it’s my general dislike of shopping or some long buried forgotten experiences. I equate Christmas Fairs with over-crowded stuffy rooms, knitted peg-bags that you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy, cakes that have been thoroughly breathed on by every flu infected attendee and homemade Christmas decorations.

I could write at length about homemade Christmas decorations. They are not something I value. Not even the sticky offerings my own children produced (they tell me they are scarred by this. I can cope.) I like decorations that are pretty and sparkly and preferably made of glass. Like the baubles our parents owned that we weren’t allowed to touch, that our brother broke with a football one year and then was NOT locked in his bedroom for a week over. Which was grossly unfair.

Anyway, this Christmas fair was rather lovely. It served mull wine at the entrance, which helped. It also had a Rock Choir in the car park. They had to be in the car park because there were millions of them. Not sure if they were invited to boost numbers or for their music. Also not sure how they managed to sing – it was freezing cold and someone had helpfully positioned them down-wind of the fire pit (for roasting marshmallows) so when they took a breath it would be smoke filled. They did make for a cheery atmosphere though.

There was a bouncy castle and face painting for the children. Now, face painting is a weird idea. The child sits there, having chosen a design, while the adult attempts to copy the picture onto their face. The child cannot actually see the paint on their face, it could be anything. They just have to remember to not wipe their nose or scratch their face for the rest of the day. It does unfortunately tend to be children with nasty colds who have their faces painted. Perhaps the lines of snot could be incorporated into the design somehow – it never looks good on the tiger/flower/lion designs that are generally chosen. I know one of the ladies who was doing the face painting. I did offer to face paint her face, thought it would be good advertising. There was a part of me that was longing to paint a huge willy or rude slogan on her cheek – she wouldn’t have known until she went home and looked in the mirror and it would be hugely funny. But she refused to let me. Clearly doesn’t trust me. Seemed harsh.

There were the usual range of other stalls : soaps and candles, a range of knitted and crocheted items, which I would never be patient enough to make. Actually, I can knit. I am half way through a cardigan for my daughter. It is for a child aged 5 years and she is now 23, so I have been knitting it for a little while now. I am sure she wont even appreciate it when I do finally finish it. Maybe I should make a special effort for this Christmas. Or give it to a Fayre to sell. Though none of the other children’s cardigans were quite as asymmetrical as mine.

Do you remember when brother made some bath-salts? I think he got the recipe from Blue Peter (does that programme still exist? It was an intrinsic part of our childhood.) Anyway, these bath-salts were made from soda crystals and you then added perfume and colour. He used some second-hand lavender perfume that he had bought at a jumble sale. Lots of it. I think it had gone off. He then coloured them with food colouring. Blue food colouring. Lots of it. Food colouring stains things. Both me and the bath were blue tinged for weeks after that bath. It is one of the few times growing up that I heard Mum swear. I still feel ill when I smell lavender.

The church had made a huge effort for this fair. There was a nativity scene in the foyer – with a baby Jesus who looked like he was dressed as a spaceman, which was unusual. There were balloons everywhere – even hanging from the cross at the front of the church (which I feel might be a talking point at the next church meeting.) Loads of people came, which I think was the point, to let people in the area know that the church is there and actually exists today. Not something that should be assumed in the UK in 2015. I’m not sure if any of those people will ever come back, but I guess at least they now know the location – and that we aren’t overly precious about our icons.

Hope you have a good week.
Take care,
Anne x
PS, I have bought your Christmas gift, you will love it. It is to hang on your tree. And is knitted.

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Letters to a Sister : 22

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So, I was asked if I would consider helping with the Sunday School. Actually, it’s not called Sunday School, it’s called Boulders, but everyone knows what I mean if I give it the old fashioned title. If it happens, it will be hugely exciting. I did help with the group about a year ago, before I was ill. It was tremendous fun, I (and I think the kids) enjoyed it immensely. This might be my second chance.

When we were children, did you enjoy it? Mum and Dad dutifully sent us every week, but I think for me it was a bit too much like school. I did learn though, much of my Bible knowledge today is based on what I learnt as a child in those classes, despite my main aim being to kick off the shoe of the teacher when she crossed her legs. I remember one teacher who I loved because she let us draw stick-men instead of writing the story. We were simple souls.

Of course, if I am the teacher, I can be as imaginative as I want. Last year I taught about the plagues in Egypt, Moses, Pharaoh, God leading his people to the promised land. I was very keen that it shouldn’t be like school, a ‘sit down and write’ lesson. So I made it as real as I could. I felt it was important to source some of the plagues. Husband (somewhat reluctantly, I must say) helped with this.

First was blood – I did wonder about asking cousin the nurse if she could get me some but thought that maybe there would be health risks with using human blood. So we used food colouring and coloured some water red. It was more pink to be honest. Fear the children may now think all Jewish people were anaemic.

Next was frogs. I tried the local ponds but they were very hard to catch. Father-in-law came up trumps. Apparently his pond had too many and he needed to lose some. Gave me a tupperware box full of bouncing amphibians. I put them in the garage in a very big box covered in netting with a ‘pond’ in an empty ice cream container. Was getting excited now.

Flies were easier than you might think – my window sills had a good supply of dead ones that could be put into an envelope. The joys of living on farm land. I decided the smaller ones could double up as gnats.

Locusts were also easily sorted. The local ‘exotic pets’ shop sold them in boxes as food for the lizards and things. They were alive (apparently lizards and things do not like to eat dead things.) We put them into another big crate in the garage. You would be amazed by how much green stuff a locust can eat. We had about twenty of them. Husband then got rather enthusiastic. He ‘decorated’ the crate to make a nice environment for them. Lots of leaves and branches, areas of soil, etc.

The boils were lipstick spots with ‘tumours’ of lumps of cold porridge. The hail was crushed ice cubes. The dead animals were found in my daughter’s long forgotten farm set in the loft. The darkness was a big blanket everyone could hide under.

Death was harder, we had to just act that. Even I felt that using a corpse might be going too far. And be illegal. And damage the children beyond repair.

Anyway, we had a terrific time. We learned about the story, then made a short film, using mobile phones. It would probably win some Oscars if I released it. I will send you a copy.

Afterwards, the frogs went into my pond (still see them occasionally) and the rest of the stuff went back into cupboards.

The locusts were a problem. They had grown huge (we only had them a week) and husband had bonded with them. Super. Son 1 did suggest we could release them into crops next door but that was clearly wrong. Eventually we found someone with a big lizard thing which ate big locusts, so we gave them to him. Think husband was rather sad but we coped.

Am very much hoping it happens. Husband has banned me from teaching about Noah’s Ark. But I think it has potential.

Take care,
Anne x

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Letters to a Sister : 18

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Okay, so I have a problem. A church/christian related problem, but I guess it could apply to work or schools just as well. It’s about Aid Agencies/Charities.

Now, I think you’ll agree, there are a lot. Wherever you go, there seems to be an opportunity, if not almost an obligation, to give to poor people. When there is a disaster, like the earthquake in Nepal, the High Street is full of people with buckets or selling sad looking cakes, all eager to part you from your money and send it to those in need. The motives behind all this bucket waving are undoubtedly good. My problem is, are the agencies that actually receive the money the most efficient?

I started this saying it was a church problem because from what I’ve seen, churches are chock full of well meaning people who want to help alleviate suffering (which is good) and so start a charity. Not so good. Most people do not have the first idea how to best run an aid agency, however well motivated they are. I have laid out my feelings about this very clearly in the article ‘How to Choose an Aid Agency’.

My problem is that when someone, who is very nice, very Godly, very caring, comes to church and gives a plea for money, what should we do? My gut feeling is that I should stand on my seat and shout, “Don’t give him any money! He’s a nice bloke but a large percentage of the money will be wasted.”

I have learned, over the years (with much help from my family) that following my natural instincts is not always right. So I don’t. I sit there, fuming as I hear how his tiny organisation is working in 57 different countries. And I do nothing. I do not stand on my chair. I do not even approach him afterwards and ask him just how, exactly, his little charity ever checks that the money is being spent appropriately – does he live on an aeroplane travelling between countries, looking for fraud or misspent cash? Nope, I do nothing. Because I am not really sure what the appropriate response should be.

You see, these people ARE good people. They see a need and want to help. They probably do help a lot of people. My point is, if the same money went to a bigger, better run agency (like Tearfund or Oxfam, someone part of the DEC) then so many MORE people would be helped. By asking for money, they are diverting that giving from other places. They are, in effect, costing people lives. Yes, they might help 100 people. But if Tearfund could save 150, they have wasted 50 lives. It makes me angry. Too angry to trust myself to tackle it actually.

I know that God sometimes uses the people who are available, rather than those who are the best. However, there ARE good agencies out there. There are people who know how to provide aid in developing countries. To set up a small, inefficient agency is not kind, it is short-sighted. To continue running one, rather than handing it over to a larger agency, becoming part of something better, feels egotistical.

Imagine this: Someone comes to church and during a hymn they fall over, having a heart attack. I feel desperately sorry for them, I want to help, they are in a lot of pain. I also have my ABC first aid card. So I rush forward and offer to help. I don’t really know exactly what to do, but I have some knowledge and I want to help. Plus, I am better than nothing. There is a doctor at the back of the church. The doctor also begins to walk to the front. But my friends say, “Don’t worry, Anne is helping him.” The people know me, they know I am kind, so they want to support what I am doing. They ask the doctor to stand back, so I have room to work. They help to pass me the things I ask for. But at some point, shouldn’t someone say, “Get out of the way Anne, there is a doctor here and they are better at this than you are.”

At what point is it right to criticise a person or a charity that is making mistakes? Yes, they are kind, yes they are Godly, yes, they are honest. But if there are better, more professional options out there, shouldn’t we lovingly tell them to butt out? I honestly don’t know. What do you think?

Take care,
Anne x

The full version of this can be read at: https://anneethompson.com/christian-tearfund-materials-and-poems/a-problem/

The link to my article is:

How to choose an Aid Agency/ Charity

 

Letters to a Sister :16

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So, we went to look at some missionaries. It was a little like going to view a puppy before we agreed to take one. Not quite sure how we managed to be given the job.

To explain, our church supports some missionaries who have now finished their term abroad, so we need new ones. We were given the names of some who seem suitable but they didn’t have time to visit our church, so it was decided that a deputation would go and hear them speak. We (me, husband and Barbie) somehow managed to be the deputation. Not a good choice.

The evening started well when the motorway to strange Baptist church we had never heard of before, was shut. Briefly, but it did mean we were then in a rush. We then found that the road that actually led to the church was also shut. Was not going well. Considered abandoning mission and going to pub instead.

Arrived late, church was small, neat, probably has not changed very much in the last 150 years. Nor I suspect have some members of the congregation. The chairs have though, they were nice and comfortable. And in shades of purple and lilac to match the mauve carpet and purple tulips. All very colour co-ordinated. I wondered who had ordered the six green chairs and whether they still attend the church.

The congregation (all 17 of them) were singing when we arrived. The words to the song were displayed on an overhead screen. I should perhaps have guessed the mood of the evening when I saw the white haired lady playing the guitar with the rainbow strap. To be fair, she played very well. In a sort of military style – I for one was not brave enough to NOT sing!

I did need to use the loo though. A very nice man told me where it was – through the door right at the front. When I asked if it was the only one, as the service had started and everyone would see me go through the door, he told me that actually, if I preferred, I could use the side door. I did prefer. He was unfortunately the man responsible for changing the words on the projector and while giving me toilet directions, the singing ground to a halt. When I returned I couldn’t work out why we kept repeating the same song. Husband helpfully informed me it was the chorus. Then got the giggles, very embarrassing in strange church. The more I tried to not giggle, the bigger the urge to collapse in uncontrollable heap. Recieved stern looks from husband.

Missionaries then stood up, wife first, to introduce their work. We began with her showing us some photos. She said we had to tell her where they were taken. I thought this was going to be examples of unusual places to hold a school or church or something. But no. They were just random photos of the country they work in and we had to guess where they were taken and who was in them. Bizarre. One was a cow in a street. What were we supposed to say? “Ah, that is a cow in a street.” Or a group of people. Was I really expected to know if they were her aunty Joan, her next door neighbours or a group from the church? Nearly lost control completely at this point, was bursting to call out “swimming pool” when shown boys playing football. (The correct answer was : “Boys playing football.” You get the idea.)

To be fair, this is not the worst thing that I have been asked by missionaries to do at a missionary evening. At least we didn’t have to sing something in a foreign language that no one speaks and which might as well be Humpty Dumpty as a christian song.

Missionary husband then gave a talk, which was quite good, but I was slightly beyond listening at this point. They seemed like a nice couple doing a good work in a difficult place. Why do churches and missionaries put themselves through these evenings? Why couldn’t we all just have a nice curry or go to the pub and chat about the work they are doing? I am glad God is so much bigger than the churches that follow him.

On drive home, we discussed the feedback we would give our own church. Husband offered the view that, “He wasn’t a pompous git like the last one we had”. Barbie and I agreed that she would be the spokesperson and husband should remain silent.

There is a truck that keeps parking outside our house. This is perfectly legal but for some unknown reason is a bit irritating. Boys and husband have been thinking of ways to encourage owner to park somewhere else. One suggestion was a sign on windscreen which says, “Harry the Hammer hates selfish parking.” The latest idea involves cat poo – of which we have plenty (joys of kittens and dirt boxes.) They feel a few nights where it will appear a local cat has taken to using the truck as a toilet will encourage the owner to move on. They are joking. I hope.

Take care,
Anne xx

 

God’s Body

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God’s Body
The
Body
Was created
to travel and move
and grow and
touch others
The
brain
was told the
route. The eyes saw
where there were dangers. The feet walked on and on.
The legs used strength to keep up. Everything worked and
The body was strong and grew and travelled. But. One day, a hand
slipped into a warm
pocket, thinking,
“The other hand
can do my work,
it’s warm in here.”
And no one noticed.
Body travelled on. He
reached a gate. One hand,
working alone could not undo
the latch. “It’s fine,”thought brain,
“Foot can do it, he has toes.”But
foot could not. So body had to
climb through hedge. This took
longer. Foot got a thorn in heel.
No one cared though. Legs and
stomach said, “It’s fine, we can
cope, we can slither.” So they
did. But now body was low.
Mud went in eye.
Nose complained,
he had to sniff
the route
and breathe.
It was too hard.
Brain tried to think of a solution.
So he stopped listening to directions.
The body fell. Into a pit. Body is hurt,
blind, crippled, fallen, weak.
Then God, in wondrous grace and kindness, gently helps hand from pocket.
He lifts body to his feet once more and sets him back onto the right path.
The body begins to move and travel and grow until at last he can touch others.