life

Two Years…

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Hidden Faces final cover 6 July 2016

Two years ago, July 2014, I had brain surgery. It was scary! It was also the end of lots of things. The end of a five year headache. The end of knowing I had a high chance of ‘sudden instant death’. The end of constant medical monitoring. The end of the brain tumour.

But not all good. It was also the end of being able to juggle several ideas all at once. The end of reliable memory. The end of any kind of mathematical ability. And, because the part dealing with anxiety was chopped through, the end of much of my confidence. The end, in fact, of me teaching.

I learned that, God still has a plan for us however broken we are. So yes, the end of teaching, but the beginning of writing. A blog grew into longer articles and finally, at last, a book. A real, solid, hope you enjoy it, book.

I hope you will read it, enjoy it, recommend it to a friend and buy one for your sister. Thank you. It means the world to me.

Hidden Faces is published by The Cobweb Press.

Available from Amazon:

Hidden Faces final cover 6 July 2016

One Little Life

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We had rats. Anyone who has poultry and a pond has rats. If you also have several mild winters, you then have a rat problem. Mr Rat Catcher came with traps and poison, but we still had a rat problem. So, we decided to get cats.

We found some cats that had been born in a stable, not feral as they had been well cared for, but they were used to living outside. We bought two, Milly and Molly, brought them home, and put them in the garage. For three days, I didn’t see them, and wondered if they had escaped! Then I took the dog into the garage with me, and two tiny kittens tentatively appeared. They had been raised on a farm with German Shepherd dogs, and they recognised Kia as a friend. Gradually they learned to like us too. When they were bigger, they moved to their home in the workshop.

Two cats wasn’t really enough to cure the rat problem, so we didn’t spey Milly and Molly. After about eighteen months, both were pregnant. Between them, they gave birth to four live kittens. Both cats are tabbies. Their kittens were a mixture of silver tabby, smoke and black. They had clearly never read any of the parenting books about how to care for kittens, and regularly sat on window sills where the kittens couldn’t reach them. I had to check them frequently and reunite mothers and kittens so they could feed. They weren’t really keen on any of them. Apart from the black one.

Milly had given birth to the black kitten, but they both wanted him. So they would hide him. I would go into the garage and all the kittens would be mewing in a heap, the mothers would be sitting somewhere high, and the black kitten would be missing. I found him at the back of shelves, in empty boxes and behind gardening equipment. When I put him with the litter, Molly would try to steal him, ignoring her own kitten.

Eventually the kittens were weaned. I decided we had too many cats, so gave one kitten to a friend, put two kittens with the mothers to live in the workshop, and kept one kitten inside, as a house cat. I chose the black kitten (I wanted him too!) We called him Mungo.

Now, everyone thinks their pet is special, (and people without pets think they are slightly mad.) So I won’t bore you with details of how Mungo would ‘beg’, reaching up with his front paws when he wanted to be picked up. Or how he would chase a plastic egg for many hours. Or how he loved the dog and would dive bomb her paws when she was sleeping. Or how he regularly killed the kitchen towel. Or slept in a very ‘uncatlike’ manner, on his back, with all four legs outstretched, often in the dog’s bed. Or how he adopted Husband (“not a cat person”) and ran to meet him when he arrived home from work and sat on him all evening. But he was special to us, and we loved him.

Initially, the plan was to keep him inside, for him to be a house cat. Then one day he escaped. I found him outside, playing with his siblings. He looked so happy, it seemed cruel to keep him locked inside. But the traffic in the farm lane worried me. So we decided that at night, when there were very few cars (about 4 per hour) he could go outside. During the day, when the roads were busier, he would stay inside.

We soon had a routine going. Every evening, Midge, his brother, would loiter around the cat flap, waiting. When we went to bed, we would let Mungo into the utility room, so he could use the cat flap. Every morning, around 6am, when we let the dog out, Mungo would run in. His siblings often were with him, it was like they were saying ‘Bye’ to him when he came inside. He would then eat, drink, and follow us around, asking to be picked up. Then he would nap for most of the day.

Until the last day. Until the day when he didn’t come in when we let Kia into the garden. The day when a man knocked on the door at 7am, to ask if I had a black cat.

I rushed outside. Some landscapers had found him, on their way to work. They had parked their vans in the lane and were carrying him in a sling made from an old towel. There were about nine of them, young men in their green uniforms. It was so kind of them to bother. Sometimes people are nice.

We could see Mungo had, at least, a broken leg, so we rushed him to the vet. As we drove, he took my thumb into his mouth, like a child holding my hand. Then either pain or fear became intense, and he bit down, both sides, straight through my thumb. It hurt.

He spent all day at the vets. Apparently, the most dangerous thing for a cat is shock, so they kept him warm and sedated, planning to operate the following day. He died that evening.

It was a bizarre day. I ate four doughnuts and drank lots of coffee. Completely missed lunchtime, it was suddenly mid-afternoon. I had walked the dog and cleaned out the birds and was wishing we had something other than Mr Bump plasters in the house for my sore thumb. Felt weird, sometimes fine, sometimes contemplating losing all the other people and animals I care about. Everyone dies. It’s always horrible. There isn’t a way to protect yourself, not without being hard.

I wondered where God was in all this. The thing is, we aren’t protected from the rubbish in life. God helps us get through it, but we aren’t ‘owed’ by God, whatever our relationship with him. He isn’t a genie in a lamp, we cannot pray and ‘make’ God change things. Life is horrid sometimes. It hurts. It’s tough. We can only try to survive and recover from the hurt. But I do believe he cares. When we hurt, God hurts too. It doesn’t have to be lonely even if it is always hard. I did pray, but in a sort of wordless, lifting the sadness sort of way – a young child raising their arms to a parent sort of way.

In time, I will thank God that I had Mungo, even though a year was too short, his life was too little. But do I have the right to say that? Sometimes, when we are hurting, we feel the loss more than we ever felt the joy. Mungo was a cat. In a few days, life will be back on kilter. I will carry the loss of my father’s death for the rest of my life. However, I have no ‘rights’ here, I did not create any of the things that I have loved, I can feel pain, sadness, loss. But should I feel anger? Whilst it is a natural part of the grieving process, there comes a time when I should let that go. We have never been promised a pain free life, not here, not now.

If you have had a pet, I don’t need to explain the sorrow, the tears, the huge hole that he has left. My thumb was sore for days, but the pain was sort of helpful. It was something physical that recognised the pain I felt inside.

There is no happy ending here. Sometimes in real life there isn’t. I wish I had never let him outside at night. But then, I am glad that I did. He had such a happy little life. He climbed trees and played with his family and did everything that cats are designed to do. I know, eventually, I will think of him and smile. I will recognise that he gave us one year of lots of joy. But right now, I miss him. Thank you for reading.

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You can follow my blog at : anneethompson.com

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If you are interested, you can read why I think prayer doesn’t work at:

Why I Think Prayer ‘Doesn’t Work’

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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.

Why not sign up to follow my blog? Then you won’t miss reading about my trip!

 

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Thank you for reading.

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Saving Time…. A Letter to a Sister

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Do you ever wish you could bottle time? Take a memory and seal it up, ready to get out and savour again whenever you needed to?

I remember wishing that I could, when the children were small. I would watch R concentrating on painting or cooking or a story, know that she was completely, one hundred percent happy, and I would wish I could store it up for her. To save those secure, carefree toddler days for when she was an anxious teenager or a stressed out adult or whatever. I have never asked her if she ever wished I could have, never asked if she needed one of those memory bursts. I just know that sometimes I would have liked one myself.

So sometimes I catch myself trying to absorb moments. I see something or experience something special and I want to bottle it, capture it for later. Trips abroad often provide those moments. Perhaps because I have time and space to notice them. Sri Lanka certainly provided a few – you might have detected a little enthusiasm when I described seeing the elephants in my last blog! But there were many others, some of them just lasted a second. Like smiling at a young child, sharing the international language of parenthood with a stranger. Or watching a pelican, clumsy and awkward as a clockwork toy.

I would even save some sad memories. Feeling the rain as I stood next to Dad’s grave, surrounded by the family’s shared grief. It was real. In a world so full of artificial, of pretence, real is important. There is life. There is death. There is God. There is a lot of weird and wonderful in between….

There was one moment in Sri Lanka, on the way to the airport. We slowed for traffic lights and the scene was so foreign, so alive. It told a thousand stories and I wanted to be able to paint it or photograph it, though neither would do it justice.

Try to imagine it for a minute. It only lasted a minute, sixty seconds. The traffic is slow and our car creeps forwards. There are people crossing: a man carrying coloured crates, someone with three sacks stacked on his shoulder. Women elegant in saris, boys sauntering in jeans, a man with no legs wheeling his chair up the road against the tide of traffic. There are beggars waiting for the red light so they can stand, silent, beseeching with empty eyes next to car windows. Small shops with tired workers, rubbish blown against the walls, bright signs with curly symbols I can’t read. And the traffic – lots of buses, patterned paintwork, inside the seats had crocheted covers under protective plastic, bright, hot, uncomfortable, with arms and faces leaning out open windows. Aggressive drivers, loud horns, pushing through the traffic scattering pedestrians and tuktuks. And tuktuks, multicoloured, personalised with cushions, flowers, pictures, beads, whole shrines stuffed in the front. Some ferrying tourists, others carrying families. Can you see it? All that life. Impossible to capture, yet very real. It all mattered to someone.

Sometimes life whizzes on.

I hope you have some wonderful moments this week, something you wish you could bottle. Even if only for a minute. Try to notice if you do.

Take care,
Love, Anne

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Letters to a Sister : 49

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Hello, how was your week? Mine was incredibly busy, so there wasn’t much time to recover from our dinner dance from last week. I know that you know some of it, but I will tell you anyway because it will make me feel better.

Monday we decided to try out the new restaurant at Knights Garden Centre. I then came home and wrote a review of it for my blog. I didn’t ‘post’ it because I worry that if I do too many posts in a week, my followers, who receive them by email, will get fed up with me and ‘unfollow’. However, if you want to read it, the link is:

The Potting Shed Coffee Shop and The Walled Garden Restaurant (Knights Garden Centre.)

Tuesday was a preparing day. I was cooking at Lunch Club and usually I shop on Wednesday, but this week I had to go to London, so shopping was pushed to Tuesday. I decided to cook the same gammon, cauliflower cheese, roast spuds and carrots followed by ginger syrup sponge that I cooked last time. It’s easy and I had the quantities already sorted out. Assumed there would be forty people and hoped I bought enough.

In the afternoon I took you to the airport. The taking bit was fine, the finding the car afterwards bit is always something of a challenge. Especially as I had left my glasses in the car (I am still in denial about needing to wear them all the time.) Found car eventually, though I know the boys would have been good about a phone call asking them to drive to the airport to help me find my car. Drove home missing you – you need to seriously review the whole living two days away thing.

Wednesday was London. Husband has some work in Argentina in the summer, so I thought I would join him. He told me I would need a yellow fever vaccination. My local surgery were unable to do it until after I was home again (so much I could write here) so I had to book one at the clinic in London. The train times didn’t work very well, so I drove to the station early, caught a train to London Bridge and then loitered around Elephant and Castle for about an hour. This is not a great place to loiter, unless you want a tattoo or a kebab or a conversation with a drunk man. I settled for the conversation.

Arrived at the clinic on time. Was then informed that actually, you only need the yellow fever jab if you are going up to the waterfalls in the North, which we weren’t. All my other vaccines are up to date, so I came home. I have barely mentioned the wasted time to Husband since, (though actually, it does come quite naturally into the conversation surprisingly often.)

Thursday was baking puddings for Friday. Friday was cooking lunch for forty people, serving, washing up, going home to recover, then meeting friends for dinner. I missed you helping at Lunch Club, it’s such hard work, though I love doing it. The oldies all came back pleased to see each other, it was very noisy. Some of them know that I find the cooking a struggle, so they come to check up on me – one of the men told me they had put me on “Suicide Watch” just in case! Forty three people came, but there was enough – sort of – some had to have sausages.

Saturday was preparing Sunday School, trying to clean up the messy house a bit, buying food for a big breakfast for all the students at the church, stuff like that.

All this was ‘extra’ stuff. You have to remember that I had all the usual ‘jobs’ of caring for the animals, cooking vast amounts of food for the boys to eat, trying to keep the house relatively hygienic.

The eggs in the incubator should hatch next week. I am trying to get a hen to go broody, then when they hatch I’ll put them under her. It’s not working very well so far. There are lots of eggs in the nest (which usually is enough to turn a hen broody) but they don’t like the weather. They sit for a couple of hours, then get bored and go for a wander around the garden. This won’t work when they have new hatchlings – they’ll die of cold unless she sits all the time. Annoying. Perhaps you could pop back to poultry-sit?

Take care,
Love, Anne x

PS. I had just finished writing this when I went to check the incubator and one of the eggs is shaking and cracked. It’s EARLY! Rushed around in a panic, filling a plastic crate with hay, trying to find where I put the water and food pots a year ago, fixing a heat lamp at the right height above the crate. All ready now. Sometimes they take a couple of days to actually hatch, but occasionally it’s just a few hours, so I need to be ready.

Now I keep going back to check. I still find watching ducklings hatch incredibly exciting. The egg just has a tiny crack at the moment. When I shine a torch on it, it shakes from side to side while the duckling inside tries to unfold. A little miracle. I’m sure the family will understand why we have no food in the cupboards…….

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You can read my sister’s letters at : http://ruthdalyauthor.blogspot.co.uk

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Letters to a Sister : 47

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The boys are back for the Easter break. Always full of helpful advice, especially about the internet. Today they told me, “If you didn’t pay for the service, you know that YOU are the product.” Hmm, this explains how Facebook pops up with all those adverts about things I have been researching online. Predatory.

They also continue to be rough on Husband. One requested that Husband should raise his hand when telling a joke so that everyone was aware.

It was a shame you missed their birthday. They are getting old – I don’t have teenagers anymore. This is good – I can now turn into a grumpy old woman (my boys assure me that people might not notice. I may have to start spitting or smoking cigars or something.) I have enjoyed parenting teenagers, mainly because they tell funny jokes. Also, as I have said in a previous letter, they are completely selfish, and they don’t try to hide it (everyone else is completely selfish but they try to hide it, and that makes it much harder to deal with!)

If I find that I miss the whole teenage world, I can probably borrow some. I do occasionally borrow other people’s children. I just have to keep them safe and feed them regularly. It is so much easier than parenting your own children, when you have things to worry about, like hopes and fears and their long term development.

Today is busy. Easter Monday we always have a cream tea at our house. People arrive for a walk across the fields, then eat scones while the children have an egg hunt in the garden. This morning I have to make scones for ninety people. Niece always comes in the morning to help make the dough and chat, so it’s a nice time. I do find the quantities difficult though. How much jam and cream should I buy? How many scones will most people eat? Every year I keep a note of who came and how much was eaten. This year Son One helped me sort out my shopping list : If last year, 66 people ate 9lb worth of scones, how many would 99 people eat? He gives me lots of abuse for still cooking in pounds and ounces ( much muttering about working in base sixteen when the modern world works in base ten.)

All this is NOT helped by every minister we have ever had at the church. They always think it would be great to invite that visiting family of twenty seven who arrive at the church on Easter morning. “The more the merrier”. Unless you are the host of course, fully aware that all shops are firmly shut. Perhaps they get muddled up with the parable where Jesus feeds five thousand people with two fish and five loaves – I would’ve thought it was fairly obvious that I am NOT Jesus.

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I love the event actually. It is busy and I do worry about not having enough scones, but it always goes well. People arrive ready to have a nice time, which makes for a lovely atmosphere – I like when my house is full of happy people. Afterwards I sit down to look at the photos, to see who was there that I missed, who hunted for the eggs, who was chatting to who. It’s a whole big muddle of age groups and smiling faces. Wonderful. I’d better go and start weighing flour.

Take care,
Love, Anne x

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You can read my sister’s letters at : http://ruthdalyauthor.blogspot.co.uk

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Letters to a Sister : 45 – Spring Cleaning

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Most of my life needs a spring clean. I have spent the last two years mainly recovering from brain surgery (which takes a lot longer than you might think) and then writing books. My house has the level of cleanliness that you would expect from someone who basically ‘does the basics’ but never has time to sweep the cobwebs off the ceiling or tackle the underneath of the beds. Actually, I have never liked housework. My boys are at uni but I still have piles of clothes they out-grew when they were ten. As for exercise – forget it!

So, I decided to do something about it. I cannot tackle the whole house – that would drive me to despair. But I can do one small thing every day. Yesterday I swept the cobwebs. Today I plan to wash all the shelves in the fridge. Tomorrow I will wipe finger marks off the light switches.

image1I have also tried to start exercising properly. Every morning I go on the exercise bike for twenty minutes, then do some floor exercises. My muscles now ache and my bum is sore. But I feel better for doing it. Today I dug out my big padded cycling shorts, the ones I wore years ago when cycling from London to Brighton. They saved my bum further discomfort. You can imagine how sexy they looked – even more lumps in strange places on my middle-aged body! Might not wear them if anyone else is in the house……

 

Another ‘exercise’ I have started is reading the above book, which a friend recommended. It’s excellent. It’s written by someone who understands middle eastern customs and life style and has put the teaching and life of Jesus into context. I love things like that.

I try to read a couple of pages every morning, with my coffee (illy) and breakfast biscuit (BelVita). They all set me up for the day. Today I read about the verse “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied.” The author points out that we need to eat and drink regularly, it’s not a one-off activity. I find this terrifically reassuring. Whilst my knowledge about God related things is pretty extensive (we were after all, steeped in it pretty much from birth and then I went on to teach Religion), my level of righteousness is not up there! The thought that this is okay, that constantly needing to search is what God expects, is wonderful.

He then goes on to define “righteousness” (it’s not a word that comes up over dinner very often, is it!) He says it’s not the “going to church, don’t drink alcohol, never swear” stuff, it’s the stuff Micah talks about in his book – loving justice, showing mercy, walking with God. That’s what I need to be seeking, as often as I eat and drink.

So, there you are, I am feeling positive. Am all ready for the week  the day  well, the next couple of hours.

Take care,
Love, Anne x

PS: The ducks are laying. There is one blue egg in the aviary, am hoping the rats don’t eat it.

PPS: A flock of sheep are now living in the field that joins our garden. Kia (GSD) spends all day monitoring how close they are to the fence!

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You can read my sister’s letters at : http://ruthdalyauthor.blogspot.co.uk

The World was Dark

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The world was dark. Nations fought each other with weapons and cruelty and military power. Politicians sought to conquer, individuals worked subversively causing upheaval and bloodshed and fear. Few felt peace, all were aware of black terror in various corners of the world.

The society was dark. Rich men ruled with might, there was little regard for the poor, the ill, the weak. People were trapped in the role to which they were born. Life was cheap, with a market for slaves, the ownership of another human, the trampling of rights.

Religion was dark. A myriad of beliefs, many advocating bloodshed and cruelty, most leaving people bewildered and confused. People chose their gods with care, hoping to gain protection or wealth. Some became their own god, others looked to the stars.

The night was dark. A young couple, displaced, needing shelter, a place for her to give birth. Workers fought the coldness of night on hills beyond the town as they protected their flocks.

In the night of a dark society in a black world, a light was born. A light to guide, marked by a star, heralded by angels, sought by seekers of truth. A light to pierce the darkness.

Today, our world is dark. We watch nations fight each other, hear tales of oppression. There is fear of terrorism, a half ignored knowledge of atrocities in foreign lands, a sense of hopelessness. Inequalities threaten our stability so we try to forget the poor, the disadvantaged, those suffering from problems too big for us to solve. Easier to blame their governments for unrest, hunger, climate change. It is too big for us.

Our society is dark. Overwhelmed by economic uncertainties, the distrust of politicians, the struggling poverty of the refugee, the unemployed, the disabled. The fear of instability that makes us cling to our wealth and families and careers. The knowledge that people are trafficked, trapped within our society and abused, hurt. Invisible suffering. A media that distorts and dominates and influences. Few are at peace.

Beliefs today are dark. People are emptily sliding towards addictions to alcohol, gambling and drugs. A confusion of religion that causes a distrust of all exclusive belief. The fascination with the occult, the selfishness of humanism and the pursuit of pleasure.

So where is that light, that promise from long ago? Not extinguished. Still shining. Still waiting. A continued promise. A light that will extinguish darkness.

A light with many names: An advisor to guide you – don’t you long for some good advice? A God worth worshipping – don’t you wish you knew the truth? A father who will never die – don’t you ache to be cared for? Someone who brings real peace, stability, safety. His government will exclude no one, will last forever, be truly fair.

The light continues to shine, waiting for people to open their eyes and see. Waiting to set them free.

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Modified from Isaiah chapter 9.

Thank you for reading.

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Prayer doesn’t work

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I have to agree when people say, “Prayer doesn’t work.” It doesn’t. At least, not in the way that they usually mean it. When people pray, they are usually asking for something. They usually want God to change something. I’m not sure that this is what prayer is all about. At least, not entirely, not in the way that we are often told.

I can think of two examples of when I prayed very earnestly for something (I have prayed more than twice, in case you are wondering. I often pray. But these are good examples of what I mean.)

Prayer one was a few years ago when someone who I had grown up with, someone who I cared about, had a horrible accident and his son was killed. I knew that I should attend the funeral, I wanted to show my support for him, but I also knew it would be very hard. It would be hard seeing those who I loved, feeling hurt. It would also be hard because my son was the same age. The coffin would be the same size as my son. So I prayed. I asked my church group to pray too. I prayed that even in this nasty situation, I would feel the peace of God, that I would know his presence with me. It was an earnest, heartfelt prayer.

If I am honest (and there is no point writing this unless I AM honest, there are enough people who ‘say the right words’ already) God did not answer my prayer. I have never felt so alone, so abandoned, as I did at that funeral. I felt no peace, no comfort of God’s presence. I felt totally alone. Full of sorrow for the family but no peace. None. I don’t know if my church group had prayed for me – I suspect they forgot (it’s very easy to forget other people’s needs in the busyness of life.) In this instance, I can honestly say, prayer didn’t work. But we should still pray.

In many parts of the world, people are ill or starving and have no access to help. Many of them pray, call out to God for help. They are not bad people, they pray very earnestly. But their babies still die. There is still not enough food or health care or water. Prayer doesn’t work. But we should still pray.

So, what does it mean? Are we getting it wrong? Is prayer a waste of time? Well, our best way of knowing God is to explore the Bible a little. In the Bible, people prayed. Even Jesus prayed. Think of the famous prayer of Jesus before he died. He prayed asking God to, “…remove this cup from me.” He absolutely didn’t want to die. So, did God save him? Did he escape a horrible death nailed to a cross? Well, no actually. Both Bible accounts and secular historical records show that Jesus was crucified and died. His prayer didn’t work, not if we are measuring prayer by ‘getting what we want’.

In the Old Testament, we read that King David gave up food and sleep to pray that his son might live. But his son didn’t, he died. David’s pray didn’t work. You might not believe the Bible, you might not like what you read, but you have to admit it is honest. It hasn’t fancied things up at all. People prayed for things and God DIDN’T act. Not always. Often not in the way they intended. Prayer doesn’t work. But we are told to pray.

The Bible has many examples where people prayed and things changed. Today, people today tell me that they lost their car keys and prayed and God helped them find them. So what does it all mean? Are they lying?

Well, the more I examine it, the more I test it, the more convinced I am that prayer doesn’t work. At least, if we think that we can change God’s plan by praying. If we could, then God would be no more than a genie in a bottle, a lucky charm, a magic crystal. Of course, some people do ‘pray’ to those things, to lucky charms and sometimes their prayers are ‘answered’. Sometimes they find their car keys or their nephew gets well or the weather is sunny. But I think that is co-incidence. I personally don’t think a lucky charm can change anything. Do I think that praying for lost car keys helps us find them? Perhaps, but that too might be coincidence. And I don’t think our prayers change God. God is bigger than that. God is God.

Do you ever change your mind? I do (my husband would say too often.) What do we mean when we say that? We mean that we thought something in the past, then we decided that it was wrong, now we think something different. If you look at that sentence again, you will see there are lots of time-related words. That’s because we are on a timeline – we have a past, a present and a future. But God doesn’t, we read he is ‘omnipresent’ which means he is outside of time. Therefore God, simply because he is God, cannot change his mind. Not in the way that we mean when we say it anyway.

I believe that God created the world (this needs some explanation because yes, I do also believe that dinosaurs were real, things evolved. At some point I hope to write an article about creation. But for now, just accept that I believe God created the world.) When he did, he put certain rules in place, certain scientific principles. Like gravity. Now, God is God, God CAN break those rules (because he created them) but he doesn’t (except on very rare occasions. We call those miracles.) The world works best if the rules are in place.

So, if I drive my car as fast as I can, straight at a brick wall and pray really hard that God will save me, I doubt that he will. The laws of physics (which God put in place) show that both I and my car, will be smashed to bits.

A child may pray completely earnestly that Mt Everest might move to Germany, because that’s what he wrote in his test paper. But we wouldn’t expect God to move Everest. He could, he is God. But actually we would prefer that he didn’t, that our world remained stable.

Yet we frequently pray asking him, in our grown up way, to change the laws of physics/science. If I eat lots of junk food and rarely exercise, then however much I pray, it is likely that my heart will be trashed and I will die when I’m young. If we pollute the atmosphere, then global warming WILL happen. There will be floods in certain countries, crops will fail, people will die. If we choose to organise our societies so that we don’t pay a fair price for certain commodities, then some countries will be poor, there will be famine and disease.

We know what the ‘rules’ are, if we choose to flout them, then God doesn’t always intervene. Even tiny things, like germs, follow the rules of science. If water is contaminated, people get sick. If cells are subject to whatever causes cancer, then cancer will develop. It is like driving the car at a wall, perhaps without even knowing it but the conclusion will be the same.

So, is there any point to prayer? Well actually, I think yes, there is. Prayer doesn’t ‘work’ in that we cannot manipulate God by praying. But it is still effective. Since writing this I have worried about publishing it, that it might stop someone praying. Don’t stop. I know that prayer is important, I just want people to understand a little more about what it is not. It is important because of this: Prayer changes us. God wants us to pray because that is how we connect with him, that is how we include him in our lives and that is important.

When my children were tiny, I used to love when they sat on my knee and told me things. I remember my daughter sitting on my lap, swinging her legs and telling what she wanted for Christmas. It involved a lot of chocolate. That much chocolate would have made her ill, so I didn’t give it to her. But I loved that she told me, that she shared her hopes with me. My son wanted a crocodile – a real one. He didn’t get that either. But it wasn’t because I didn’t care, it was because I did. I knew things that they didn’t. But I wanted them to tell me, it helped to form a relationship, one that we still have now. They are grown up now but I still love when they tell me things and because they did when they were small, they continue to now they are grown. (My daughter still wants chocolate…)

God loves us like that. He wants us to bring ourselves to him. Not in the hope we can manipulate him, not for what we can ‘get’, but because he wants to share in our lives. Plus, as I said, praying changes us. We start to hear God, to change what we want so it is in line with his will. Praying changes us, it can also change others. Sometimes he does want us to pray for something physical to change, sometimes even a miracle, something that breaks those laws of science. If we aren’t used to talking to him, listening to him, we will never be changed to pray how he wants us to.

The issue is rather confused by the verses in the Bible that say things like, “Ask and you will receive,” and “whatever you ask in prayer you will receive.” Some people have used them to encourage people to pray for money, comfort, health. But they must be read in context. They are part of the whole and the whole says that God will only give us good things. Unlike us, God is outside of time, God sees the eternal picture. We might long for good health, but perhaps there are things that we can only learn if we are in pain. We might pray for a parking space but perhaps walking in the rain means we will meet and speak to someone who needs to be spoken to. We might pray for a life to be saved but God knows that that life will be safer with him, it is time for them to leave their body, to die. We might pray to be free from an addiction but perhaps God knows that constantly fighting that will help us to depend on him.

It is all about trust. Yes, we should ask, take all our desires to God. But to teach that God gives us what we ask for is misleading. Sometimes that is not what is best and God only gives what is best. I don’t write this lightly, I have lost people who I love, I know what it means to have constant pain. Trust is not easy. Life is not easy. Prayer makes it better.

Sometimes, God does act as we ask. As King David said, “Who knows whether the Lord will be gracious?” Whether this is because God, who is not restricted by time, knows from the beginning of time what our prayers will be or because he directs us to pray for what he intends to give, or because he listens and acts, I don’t know. I don’t need to know. We are just told to pray and to trust that God’s way is best. So much easier to write than to do…..

Of course, asking for things is only one kind of prayer. It’s easy to forget about the others. They take a bit of effort and we prefer to pretend that we don’t have time. Perhaps because we don’t really believe they will do any good, alter us in a meaningful way. Or perhaps because we’re just lazy (I know I am.)

We should thank God for things. Not because he needs to hear our thanks but because (again) it is good for us, reminds us that God is good and he made good things.

There is also praise – this one we ignore mostly. Praise isn’t saying thank you, it is saying what, who, God is. It forces us to recognise his God-ness. Again, God doesn’t need us to praise him – he already knows who he is, but it helps us to remember, heightens our awareness of the different aspects of God. It helps us to know God.

Then there is saying we are sorry, actually voicing the things we have done wrong. Bit awkward that one, we would so much rather just ignore all our misdemeanors, move on quickly when we realise we’ve been bitchy or nasty or jealous. But that’s not good for us. What is good for us is to recognise those things, to actually say them aloud and to ask God to forgive us. Then we can move on, hurry away and not look back. But the confessing is important.

I think there is also listening involved. Being still and thinking about God but not speaking. Pausing for a minute. I find it’s better if I actually physically kneel down for this one. Otherwise I start planning meals and writing shopping lists. It would be embarrassing if someone spotted me, so I try to avoid being near a window, have to pretend I’ve dropped something if someone comes into the room, but I find it helpful. It is not very British but maybe we should do it more often. God never forgets that we are physical, I don’t know why we behave like our bodies don’t affect what we are doing spiritually.

In the Bible, when Jesus’ friends asked him how to pray, he gave them the Lord’s prayer (the ‘Our Father who is in Heaven’ prayer – the one you probably learnt as a child.) It is very simple. I used to find that frustrating, I felt Jesus hadn’t really answered their question, he had just given a very simple example. But maybe that is what we need. All this ‘understanding how prayer works’ stuff is very complicated. It is too big for me. Perhaps it is beyond what we can hope to understand, perhaps we have to just trust and come to God with the simplicity of a child going to a parent, to just say what we feel, whether that’s anger, confusion or happiness.

The second example of when I prayed earnestly for something (you thought I had forgotten, didn’t you!) was when I had to have surgery. I was terrified and I wanted God to be with me. I asked other friends to pray. I know that they did because they told me they did. When I walked into that operating room, God was so near that I could have reached out and touched him. The whole time I was in hospital, I was aware of God like I never have been before. His presence was tangible, solid, real. Was he there because I prayed and if I hadn’t prayed I would have been lonely? Or would he have come anyway? I don’t know. I can only tell you that I prayed and God was there. God knows that we are better, happier, more complete, if we depend on him. Prayer is the beginning of learning how to do that.

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The Retelling of Tigers and Strawberries

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Once upon a time, as all good stories begin, there was a man. The man was running. He ran and ran, his breath coming in fast gasps, his legs aching, his back sweaty. Every few seconds he glanced behind him. Behind him was a tiger.

The tiger was hungry. The tiger wanted to eat the man. So the man ran and ran and the tiger ran and ran. But the tiger was faster. Every time the man glanced behind, the tiger was a little nearer. He knew the tiger was hungry, he knew the tiger wanted to eat him, so he ran as fast as he could.

Suddenly, he stopped. There was nowhere to go.

The man had reached the edge of a cliff. He peered down. The cliff was very steep, down, down, down it fell. At the bottom, the man could see water. The water bubbled and splashed and boiled. The water was full of crocodiles, squirming and rolling. They were hungry.

The man glanced behind and saw the tiger was nearly upon him. He could see great white teeth glinting in the sunlight, a red tongue lolling, evil eyes gleaming with intent. The man had no place to go. He shut his eyes and jumped.

Down, down, down fell the man. Then he stopped.

Half way down the cliff, there was a bush. A bush with thorns. The man’s shirt had caught on the thorns and now he hung there, suspended against the cliff. The man looked up. Above him was the tiger, greedily looking down. The man looked down. Below him were the crocodiles, waiting to devour him. Next to him was the bush. He heard a sound.

There was a mouse, a tiny brown mouse. The mouse was hungry. The mouse was nibbling at the roots of the bush. The mouse’s teeth were sharp and white, they were biting through the roots of the bush and soon the bush would fall from the cliff, taking the man with it.

In his terror, the man looked around. The cliff was sheer, he could not climb up, he could not climb down. When the bush fell, the man would fall too, down to where the crocodiles waited.

Next to the bush, growing on the tiny ledge of the cliff, was a wild strawberry plant. There were a few leaves and one, ripe, red strawberry. The man looked up, the tiger was waiting. The man looked down, the crocodiles were watching. The man looked at the bush, it would fall any second. So he reached out his hand and picked the strawberry and popped it into his mouth.

It was absolutely delicious.

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I love this story. It is sometimes so hard to notice the strawberries in life.

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