life

Are Trump’s Tariffs Fair?

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In an attempt to not believe what politicians tell me without fact-checking, I tried to unravel the new tariffs from the US. I am taking the view that President Trump is trying to do the best for his country, you can decide for yourself whether you believe this. His rhetoric is that in the distant past things were more fair, since then the US has been plundered, and he now wants to even the score.[1] But is this true? The perception elsewhere is that since this time, the US has become a world power, and this is due in part to free trade.

Free trade (I am reliably informed by the economists in my world) is when countries have trading partners and allow goods and services into and out of their countries with relative ease. Economists seem to agree that free trade is what makes strong economies. With free trade, everyone has an easier life. But, have other countries eroded this (as Pres. Trump states)?

Well, to some extent, from what I can discover, there have been some limits to free trade. Sometimes a country wishes to protect its citizens from something considered unhealthy. (In the UK, only toys that meet a certain standard can be sold for children–so some toys from China are rejected. In the UK, we dislike genetically modified beef, so refuse imports based on that. And so on.) Countries also add their own taxes. (In the UK, we have VAT—a tax that is added to goods before they are sold—which in the US is called ‘sales tax’—but VAT is applied to those good wherever they come from, even if made in the UK. So to list these as a ‘tariff on the US’ would be untrue.) Some countries have made sale agreements: My understanding is that car manufacturing is particularly cosmopolitan, with different components being added in different countries, so a car may pass between Canada and Mexico and the US, getting bits added, until it is finally ready to sell. Each time it has a part fitted in a new country, there has been agreement that no extra tax will be added to the final cost.

Now, despite what Pres. Trump said, the US has actually benefited from the global economy. Evidence for this is found in things like: Any country in the world will accept dollars (we take dollars when we travel to India). The US is seen as powerful, and is included in talks concerning climate or security. Services from the US have prospered; in the UK, Amazon is huge, so is Google, and Apple, and Microsoft, etc. American banks are strong. Across the globe, countries have welcomed companies like McDonald’s. Normal people in the US have benefited from this, it has supported their own economy. Yes, there has been a decline in certain industries—this is true everywhere. In the UK, whole towns were built on coal or steel, and they have needed to diversify, and find new industry, and this has not always been easy or smooth. But the US has sold many services abroad, and overall has grown stronger. Therefore, it seems the world has not ‘raped’ the US, but rather the US has done very nicely out of free trade, thank you very much.

I looked into what tariffs have actually been set, and why. It seems they are based on trade deficit—this is when the country sells less of a product than it buys, it’s a number. (US buys 100 televisions, it sells 40 televisions, therefore the trade deficit is 60.) Pres. Trump took the trade deficit with each country, divided it by the number sold, then divided by 2. (In my example, 60/100 divided by 2) However, he has only looked at the trade deficit of goods (actual stuff) not services (like Amazon, or banks, or IT) so it is rather skewed. And my understanding is that his method is ‘deeply flawed.’[2] Never mind the human cost, because breaking trade agreements does not make you an attractive partner in the future.

My conclusion therefore is that, from the evidence I can find, the new tariffs are not wise. They are not ‘fair’ because they are based on faulty economics, and they will not benefit people living in the US. But they may isolate the US from the rest of the free world.

The advice to the rest of the world appears to be that we should assume the US is ‘going it alone’ and we should make fresh deals with non-US partners. (As I showed yesterday, some supermarket shoppers now avoid goods from the US.) This potential decline seems a shame to me, I like the US, I have no wish to see its economy slump. I think there is a real danger that poverty in the US will increase, which often leads to more crime and unrest. I find this very sad.

I also worry about the impact on less developed nations. The US was generous towards those countries struggling with HIV, it helped to keep peace in the world, it was a good country. I worry that the loss in aid will be devastating for the poorest in our world. Never mind that we will have to pay more for Apple products (and will probably switch to non-US ones)—that is insignificant. What will happen to the poor in our world? Those are who we should be fighting for, and I hope that the people in the US, who are mostly good people (in my experience) will remember they have a privileged place in helping to restore balance in the world.

Thanks for reading. If you have further insight, do add to the comments.
Have a good week, and take care.
Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com

[1] Trump ‘glorifies’ the ‘era of the late 19th century’ and hopes to return to this economy. Zanny Minton Beddoes, Economist Online, April 2025. See also point (1) from yesterday’s blog.

[2] Financial Times Online, April 2025.

Being Aware

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I rarely write blogs about political issues, but I find the news very unsettling at the moment. As you know, we studied a little politics in our Ethics class at Spurgeon’s, looking at how fascism grew in the past. It grew quickly, centred around one individual, and I doubt if most people realised what was happening. The parallels with today are alarmingly similar.

This partly came to my attention last week, at a family dinner. As I listened to one family member telling about her experience in Canada, and another family member comparing his news of Mexico, I realised that in the UK we are very complacent. I had no idea that people in these countries (and I’m guessing Greenland) are genuinely worried. They see a threat to their sovereignty. Mexico and Canada are fighting back. But what about those countries with unsettled economies? Who is speaking for the poor?

 I didn’t realise that shops in Mexico and Canada now label the country of origin for their products, people are encouraged to buy local produce and to reject things from the US. Maybe this will help. Do you think we should support them in this? Do we need to buy from the US when there are alternatives? If one man attempts to stamp on the rest of the world, maybe the world should join together in their response. The world today is a global community, and putting your own country first when that means alienating everyone else, is not such a good idea. And what will happen to the poor? Do we just allow them to be sucked down in a whirlpool of powerful economic battles? Who is speaking for the poor?

Shelves in a Canadian Supermarket

One aspect of the news that worries me is the motivation behind what politicians are saying. It used to be that when a politician spoke, you could hear them pandering to popular opinion, they cared about what the voters thought. (This created problems of its own.) But now I hear something else behind the words, now I hear them pandering to an individual—and this has been seen in history. Listen carefully when you hear the news—who do you think the politicians are most aware of when they speak? Who are they trying to impress—and is this healthy? Does this leader show any compassion for the poor of the world?

I leave you with the key points of fascism from Jason Stanley (author of How Fascism Works). As you read the list, which can you apply to the news today?

  1. A Great Mythical Past. A fascist leader will talk about how things used to be better in the past. They ignore all the problems that were actually in the past, and focus on a mythical ideal.
  2. Propaganda. A fascist leader will promote their own message and say that any alternative view is a lie. Hitler and Mussolini both did this, saying that things reported in newspapers were untrue, telling the population that their opponents were liars. The idea of accusing the media of ‘fake news’ goes way back in time.
  3. Anti-Intellectualism. Fascist leaders appeal to people with limited education, the speeches are not necessarily clever (because truth doesn’t matter) and they appeal directly to emotions. They dislike, and try to discredit, academics (because they will offer a counter view, or question the authenticity of the claims being made). Experts are shunned, people are told to ‘think for themselves’ which really means, ‘don’t question what I am telling you and don’t listen to someone who might have studied this issue.’ (I think we should be wary of people who tell us ‘the experts don’t know what they’re talking about.’ In my experience the ‘experts’ usually know more than the rest of us!)
  1. Unreality. This is another interesting one—apparently fascist leaders tend to love conspiracy theories. They always have an enemy who is trying to sabotage them, talk of subterfuge is encouraged, they want people to be paranoid. They also blame past leaders.
  2. Hierarchy. Fascist leaders always have a dominant group of loyal followers, those who are ‘true to the leader.’ Anyone who questions the general message is eyed with suspicion, and removed from the ‘inner group.’ As stated earlier, everything focusses on the leader. [Listen to what they are saying—who are politicians trying to please?]
  3. Victimhood. Fascist groups always state that they are the victims of another group—they have been oppressed, or made poor, or cheated—and this has been caused by a definable ‘other.’ (Hitler blamed the Jews, gay people and Roma, but other groups held to blame over the years include black people, feminists, immigrants.)
  4. Law and Order. Fascists declare that they want a return to law and order, and the group against them are the criminals. The ‘other’ people are the ones to blame for crime, for stealing, for rape, for drugs, for violence. [In the introduction of any emergency measures to combat ‘a risk to security,’ the ‘risk’ should be fact-checked.]
  5. Anti-Decadence. Fascists claim that the moral fibre of society is under threat (blaming the ‘other’ group). Only they, and their followers, have good morals. Anyone not supporting them is described as a bad person.
  6. Work Ethic. Fascists claim that the ‘other’ group are lazy, mere parasites of society. Fascists claim they are hard-working, deserving of better.
  7. Nationalism. Fascists promote great nationalism, and shun other nations. They strive to make their country ‘great again’ and nothing else matters. This gives a great sense of belonging to the followers of fascism. [But in a global community, what are the consequences of this? We need to be shrewd.]

I add to this the current policy of saying what you want to be true, as if presenting it as true makes it true. It does not. It is still a lie, however loudly you say it. We can fact-check statements, and test whether they are really true.

I hear President Trump say that the US has been ‘cheated’ in the past, the new tariffs are to make trade fair for the US. Is this true? We shouldn’t simply accept a statement just because someone says it loudly or repeats it several times. Personally, I know very little about tax and tariffs. I shall do some research and let you know tomorrow what I discover.

Please be wise, wherever you live. Please make good choices. I doubt if anyone in power reads my blog, but we have a voice even if no one listens. Let’s stand for what is right, because ‘those who are noble plan noble things, and by the noble things they shall stand.’ We need to be shrewd. We need to watch out for liars–just because someone says something, it doesn’t make it true.

Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

There is a lot on social media at the moment, mocking the people in power. Maybe this is one way that people are ‘fighting back.’ Maybe things seem less scary if we make them a joke. Certainly it is good to laugh, but let us not forget what is serious.

When someone includes you in a military chat by mistake.

The McDonald Islands have a tariff. There is not a human population there (apparently) but the penguins are confused.

Link to previous post:
 https://anneethompson.com/2022/11/28/what-is-fascism-and-are-you-a-fascist/

Sign up below to follow my blog.
Then you won’t miss my post exploring whether the tariffs are fair or sensible and wise.
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Jamaica Warmth

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Thursday

I was tired, and I twisted my ankle yesterday when getting into the sea, so I walked rather than ran in the exercise room this morning. It’s a very good exercise room—everything works (not always the case!) and there are remote buttons to work the air-con and telly, clean towels, wipes to clean the machines, a water dispenser and rubber mats for stretching afterwards. I think it would be too hot to run outside (plus we would probably be hit by a car on the crazy roads).

After breakfast we went back to the supermarket to buy more water. It was busier today, with security guards at the carpark entrance (free parking for 2 hours, but we needed to get the ticket stamped in the supermarket). We looked at the shops in the small precinct. Lots of bright clothes, a barber shop, two book shops, a shop of spare engine parts. Plus a toy shop—which displayed white babydolls in the window. Why white? Nearly everyone here is black. Makes no sense to me.

After the supermarket we went to look at a ‘craft fair’ opposite. It was full of stalls, all selling the same thing (as far as I could see)—brightly coloured dresses and hats, fridge magnets, beads, knitted goods, carved wooden goods. It reminded me of a similar craft fair we visited in Zambia. All the stall holders encouraged us to look at their goods (even though they were identical to the stall next door) and asked us to name our price. I checked the price of their fridge magnets (in Jamaican dollars). Most were $1,000 (about £5) though some were double and some were half that price. One lady was nice—friendly but not pushy, and her price was $600, plus she had some nice wooden magnets rather than just plastic ones. I bought one, and asked for a photograph. She was called Dianna. You can look for her if you ever visit Ocho Rios—I liked her.

One stall had an open Bible on the table. I asked the man serving what he was reading. He told me it was a Bible, and he had it open to encourage good vibes. I felt like I should say something—to maybe encourage him to read it, or to ask him what he believed—but it felt inappropriate. Not the time for a deep discussion, and I thought it might appear intrusive. (I tend to react against the ‘scalp-hunting’ mentality that typified my teenaged religious experience.)

We drove home without incident. It was a fun little excursion, and I feel more comfortable now. I am used to being the only white person.

Friday

Another lovely day in Jamaica. After running in the gym, we had breakfast next to the sea. I had pancakes. The menu lists the food—so it said banana pancakes with caramalised banana and maple syprup. I have learnt that when I order food here, I need to include the whole description, otherwise half the dish is missing. (So when I ordered grilled fish and veg, I received grilled fish and veg—but not the potatoes or sauce listed in the menu), Today I forgot, and asked for pancakes. Therefore I received plain pancakes. Luckily I relised my error and snaffled a banana from the fruit plate. Nice breakfast.

As we walked back to our room I threw some leftover toast into the sea (I have watched other guests doing this). Lots of striped ffish (I think called Sargeant Major fish) scurried over (can fish scurry? These could!) to eat it. Fun.

We chatted to one of the hotel managers, who spotted that we are new guests (most people have been coming here for years, and the staff also tend to stay, so it has a family atmosphere). The hotel is relatively small (50 rooms) and there is a sense of space and privacy even when (like this week) there are no vacant rooms. It has also hosted a few famous faces (Marilyn Monroe honeymooned here).

We heard there is a deserted beach further along the coast, so drove there. Driving in Jamaica is quite an adventure—massive pot holes to avoid, while someone sits inches from your bumper (sometimes beeping) and drivers whiz towards you on the wrong side of the road. Husband is very calm in these situations, and we arrived without incident (but personally, I would never drive here). We followed Google Maps to Duncan beach, and parked on the verge of an unmade road, near to where some houses are being built. There was a pathway, towards the sea. It looked private, but we went along it anyway. At the end, a man was leaning against a tree, watching us. We asked if we were allowed there—was this the right way to the beach? He smiled, and waved us on, and said yes, we were welcome, have a great day. This typifies my interaction with people here—they have mostly all been friendly, smiley, and helpful.

The beach was narrow, with volcanic rock beneath the surface of the water—the water was turquoise, and warm, and completely clear. We walked along the beach for a while, looking for shells, finding washed-up coconuts, and saweed, and lots and lots of plastic bottles. In the sea, tiny fish darted (these were not the scurrying kind) and crabs scuttled away from us. It was very sunny, so we didn’t stay too long (I have already managed to burn one arm, which was very silly of me). We ate a picnic of digestive biscuits and water before driving back to the hotel.

As we drove, I tried to take photos, to capture a flavour of the place. This part of Jamaica (St, Anns/Ocho Rios) has some luxury resorts, and some fairly basic-looking housing. Everywhere has bright colours. Goats and dogs wander next to the road. There are a few places with heavy industry, linked to the bauxite quarrying. (Bauxite is a metallic mineral, and it’s the only source of extractable aluminium.) Bauxite is a soft red clay, and as we drove near to where it was being loaded onto ships, the road and trees were tinged with the red dust. I worry it might not be too healthy for people living nearby. I didn’t manage to capture photos of the fishing boats bobbing on the sea, or the children playing, or the animals. But you can see how green everywhere is, with lush plants filling almost every space, and trees covered with vines and air-plants.

I have enjoyed Jamaica, even though we have seen very little of it. Maybe next time we will do more touring, and try to see more of the island, but even this short week has given us a flavour of the place (and a warm flavour of rum and smiles). The service here is warm and relaxed, and you have to lean into the pace and forget the English schedules. Jamaica is a place to relax.

I hope you find time to relax too this week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

I am going to miss the fruit punch!

anneethompson.com

Who Has Got Your Back?

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As part of my research, I have gone back to Genesis, exploring the text for new insight. It never ceases to surprise me how often reading a passage that I ‘know’ extremely well, offers something new. A new teaching, or way of looking at life, something helpful for life ‘beyond theology.’ (Afterall, the biblical texts would be pretty useless if they were only good for academic debate.) I’ll share my recent discovery with you.

I am looking at the story about the garden of Eden, which begins near the start of Genesis (after the narrative about the 7 days of creation). There are different ways of understanding these stories. Some people view them as historically accurate—these describe actual events about actual people. Others understand them as myths or parables—stories to explain something important, but the things in them didn’t actually happen.[1] To be honest, I’m not sure it matters really, as long as you are reading openly, listening for God to speak to you (the main fault, in my opinion, is to read them as a weapon, to ‘prove’ your own belief or show someone else that they are wrong.) Anyway, for this nugget of wisdom, it doesn’t matter what your viewpoint is. Personally, I sit in the ‘parable’ camp, but to properly understand the texts I think we have to enter the world of the story, leave behind our scientific knowledge for a moment, and try to understand what is being taught.

It helps if you can read them in Hebrew, but I’ll write this in English (just be aware that the words are not exactly as written). The story begins (Gen.2:4) with the earth being bare and barren—because, we are told, there is no human to work the ground and God hasn’t sent any rain yet. God creates the man, forming him from the dust of the earth (so he’s literally an earthling!) God plants a garden in a place called Eden and places the man there. God causes trees to grow, so the man has food. (In the middle was the tree of knowledge of good and evil—but that’s not relevant for this bit of the story.) God made rivers, to water the garden, and then we are told (again) that God put the man into the garden (and this is important) לְעָבְדָהּ וּלְשָׁמְרָֽהּ to work it and to guard it. Remember that bit—especially the ‘guarding’ bit. These were the roles given to people: to work the ground, and to guard.[2]

There is lots of speculation (academics prefer the word ‘deduction’ but really it cannot be more than educated guesses) about what, exactly, the man was guarding the garden from. Some say it has an ecological meaning—showing that humans were meant to care for the world (we’ve certainly made a mess of that!) Others say it’s evidence that there were other people, outside the garden, and the man was to guard against them.[3] God then commands the man to eat from every tree, but warns that if he eats from the tree of knowledge of good and bad, then he will die that very day.

We’re going to skip through the next bit. The man needs a companion, and God makes a woman to help him. (The word עֵזֶר helper is the same word used when God helps people—just in case you were wondering if there was a hierarchy here.) Then a snake appears (described as עָרוּם prudent/shrewd which is a clever little pun, because it’s pronounced ‘aroom’ and the people are עֲרוּמִּים  naked which is pronounced ‘aroomim’.) The people eat from the forbidden tree, they and the snake are punished and the people are banished from the garden. They still have to ‘work’ the ground, but now it’s harder. There is no mention here of guarding anything.

Then we skip ahead, to when the couple have two sons, Cain and Abel. Both sons make an offering to God, and Cain’s is rejected. I wrote an earlier blog on how this wasn’t fair.

Right, we’re nearly at the bit I want to talk about.

Cain takes his brother into a field (presumably because there were other people around—and he didn’t want to be seen). Cain kills Abel. God asks Cain, where is your brother? Cain replies (this is important): לֹא יָדַעְתִּי הֲשֹׁמֵר אָחִי אָנֹֽכִי  ‘I don’t know, am I my brother’s keeper/guard?’ We have that word again, שָׁמַר to keep or guard. Remember, the word at the beginning, when the man was told to work and guard the ground.

So, this is my understanding. People were given two tasks: to work the ground (care for nature) and to guard. At first, they had to keep/guard the garden. Then, when there were other people, they were supposed to guard each other. When Cain asked, ‘Am I my brother’s guard?’ our reply is: Yes! Yes, you are supposed to look after your brother. You are supposed to watch out for each other. That is what people are supposed to do.

This seems to me to be true today, it is how things are meant to be. When someone is having a rough time, when they have a health issue or a problem or something difficult, does anything help like having someone watch their back? It’s what parents do—they guard their children. It’s what siblings do—they support each other. It’s what friends do—they make it known that they are there, supporting, keeping, guarding. Let’s try to do this in the next week, let’s look for people who need to be ‘guarded.’ People who we can help as they cope with the muddle that is life as we know it.

Thanks for reading. I hope you have someone to watch your back.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

[1] Joseph Fitzpatrick, The Fall and the Ascent of Man (2012).

[2] Kristin M. Swenson, ‘Earth Tells the Lesson of Cain,’ in Exploring Ecological Hermeneutics, ed. Norman C. Habel (2008).

[3] Ziony Zevit, What Really Happened in the Garden of Eden? (2013).

Meg’s Diary, Life with the Cat

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11/1/2025

Trying to force Meg and the cat to be friends is not, I think, going well. The cages are now pushed next to each other, and on the positive side, they are able to both sleep in them—so for many hours there is peace. But the cat’s cage makes a corridor into the utility room, and the cat knows that when Meg goes in and out, she can reach through the bars and scratch Meg. Meg also knows this, so is very wary of walking past the cage, which results in a lot of barking and bouncing (because that is what a nervous Meg does). I blame the cat for this.

There is also chaos when the cat uses her dirt tray. I don’t know why, but as soon as the cat goes onto the tray, Meg starts to bark and bounce and bang against the cat’s cage. Maybe she doesn’t like the smell (though she emits such awful smells herself, I don’t think this can be the reason).

On the positive side, they have their bowls of food next to each other—either side of the bars—and they notice what the other is eating and don’t try to interfere. Lots of the time life is peaceful, even though they are in close proximity. The cat seems to be the boss, and is the main instigator of trouble—though as Meg is much bigger and has the potential to damage the cat, I really need them to co-exist peacefully, without a constant battle even if the cat starts it. The cat will have to be confined for another two weeks, until her snapped ligament has fully healed. Then we will see what happens. I’m not sure that anything has changed at all, and their relationship will continue to be one of Meg chasing the cat whenever she can, and the cat hissing at Meg from high vantage points. Which is exactly what it was before I started this exercise.

The woods are beautiful this week. The snow is clinging to the trees and the temperature has dipped below freezing, so it has stayed for a few days. Breathtakingly pretty. The ice means that walking is a bit dodgy, and the snow is packed hard from all the dog-walkers, and incredibly slippery. Everyone walks on the edges, where it’s less compacted, which means gradually the footpaths are widening.

The tree men are back, with their great machines of destruction, chopping down trees and churning up the mud. At least now its frozen the wheels will do less damage, but before Christmas was very wet, and they have ruined swathes of woodland by making trenches of mud and destroying the undergrowth. I hope they know what they are doing, and it’s necessary for the health of the woodland, but it looks to me like they are just blokes enjoying big machinery. Yesterday they started work in an area of mainly pines—which is where ‘my’ tree is. There is one tree (I think a beech) which has a very black trunk and a beautiful shape, and it’s very stark against all the surrounding pines. I have noticed it on my walks since 2001; twenty-four years ago when I used to walk my Labrador there. I even wrote a story about it. I do hope it survives the men and their machines.

Meg, as ever in the woods, is very good near the workers—she basically ignores them. Yesterday we needed to walk very close to where they were working, so I collected a few sticks, told her to walk on my right, and we kept our distance, throwing sticks into the woods every few minutes so Meg was on full-alert, waiting for the next one to chase. She ignored the noise of the machines, the moving lorries, the falling trees, the men shouting to each other and the whine of saws. The only thing in Meg’s world was the next stick, and when it would be thrown. (It made her appear very well-trained. But she’s not. She simply has a compulsive desire to chase sticks.)


15/1/2025

Meg has favourite places to lie now (like a proper dog!) She has discovered the radiator on the landing and will lie there for hours, soaking up the heat and waiting for me to come out of my room. She also (weirdly) likes her crate, and will sometimes put herself to bed in there. She also prefers it to the utility room, so if she starts fussing when we eat, I go to the utility room, open the door, call her. Meg stops and looks at me. She understands she is about to be shut away, and she walks, very deliberately, into her crate and sits down. It’s very funny!

Thanks for reading, and have a great week.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

I gave blood today. It was, as expected, an utterly ghastly experience. It was also, unexpectedly, a humbling experience—and afterwards I felt very glad that I had done it.

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I should start by admitting that (unlike most other donors) I was there for purely selfish motives. As I told you about a year ago, I was diagnosed with haemochromatosis, which means my body builds up iron stores. Too much iron causes fatigue, and eats your ligaments, and eventually gives you liver cancer—so catching the condition early is a very good idea. I had never heard of it before being tipped off by a relative (it’s genetic, so runs in families) but I have since realised that it’s fairly common.

Anyway, a year ago I was referred to a haematologist, who is very nice and very disorganised, and who basically does nothing and is impossible to communicate with—which is stressful. I therefore decided that I would take action myself, and sign up to be a blood donor. That way I could get some of the iron removed. I knew from a recent blood test what my iron levels were, and it’s not difficult maths to work out ratios, and how much iron will be removed per pint of blood (the iron will be less each time—so actually the maths is quite difficult, but luckily I married a mathematician). I’m all for being proactive with health issues—we are responsible for our own health.

To be a donor is relatively easy. You can complete an online form, and depending on your answers, they then phone you for more details before saying whether or not you are suitable. If you pass the first stage, you make an appointment at a nearby donation centre.

I arrived in good time for my appointment. They had advised me to drink lots, so I arrived absolutely bursting for the washroom! After using the Ladies, I was given a form to complete, and a booklet explaining the possible side effects, and a large drink of water. Several other people had arrived, and I was interested to see that many used the washroom (had obviously followed the same instructions as me) and most people sipped the water while reading the form (I had downed mine in one—which is how I drink water, though not alcohol).

I was then called into a little makeshift booth (the centre was in the local United Reformed Church) and my question sheet was scrutinised, and more questions were asked, and some of my answers caused the nurse to phone the blood centre, to check I was allowed to donate. I found this scrutiny unexpected, but realised that it is excellent. The blood bank is very careful to ensure that all the blood is suitable—not contaminated with diseases or medicines. (I was very pleased that I hadn’t taken a couple of Nurofen that morning when I woke with a slight headache, or I may have been sent home.)

The nurse then explained she needed a small sample to check, took my hand, and stabbed my finger. This was shocking! I had known that they would put a needle in my arm, and was ready for that, but the finger damage felt worse somehow. But I didn’t scream or snatch away my hand, I managed to sit still like a grown-up, as if people shoved sharp things into my fingers every day and this was no big deal. My blood passed the test, I was accepted as donor. Yaay!

I was then (after another trip to the washroom—very full bladder!) shown to a seat that reclined, like a dentist’s chair (but without the drill). The church hall had about 10 chairs, all with donors tipped backwards, their feet wiggling. I was given a leaflet that suggested certain exercises I should do while giving blood—squeezing my fingers and relaxing them, clenching my leg muscles, moving my feet—I joined the feet wigglers. My nurse started to explain what he was doing, but I said I’d rather not know, and tried to read my book. I won’t put you off your breakfast with the details, but he did what was necessary for me to donate (and it was not fun). I tried to look away, but the room was full of people, wiggling their toes and not-watching their own arms, so it was best to look at my book so I didn’t watch someone else by mistake.

As I lay there, trying to read, and staring up at the ceiling, and not thinking about what was happening, I was suddenly aware that someone would probably receive my blood at some point. Someone who would be suffering way more than I was, someone who might die without it. And I felt very humble, because here was I, shocked by a finger prick, and yet someone in crisis would maybe have their life extended by the blood I didn’t need. So I prayed for them, whoever they are, that my blood would be useful, and that God would use it to bless someone in a time of great need. And then I became aware of all the other people in the room—the other donors who were probably not there for selfish reasons like me, but were undergoing this rather ghastly procedure just because they are good people who want to help. And the staff, who were diligent, and caring, and were working as a team to collect blood to save lives. I was probably the least-good person in the room, and it was humbling.

Then, quicker than I had imagined, it was over. (I only read 4 pages of my book.) An alarm pinged, and they removed whatever was in my arm (I never looked, so never saw it). Then a nurse sat me up, and my head felt woozy so she lay me down again. (Actually, she tipped my right back so my head was very low and I thought I might slide right off the back of the chair which would have been very embarrassing! But I didn’t, and it stopped the light-headed feeling instantly.) I was sat up very slowly, and given a drink of water and a packet of crisps. (My brother gets a cup of tea and a biscuit, so I felt slightly cheated.)

When I had sat for a few minutes (which felt like a very long time) I was able to leave. I felt fine, very happy that I had been able to donate, and very pleased that I had not fainted (which was a distinct possibility).

When I got home (Husband drove, which was kind of him and probably safest for the world) I had the best cup of tea ever, and some chocolate brownie. It was done. I didn’t feel tired, or drained, or any of the other things that I had worried about (probably due to downing all those pints of water). If you have never donated blood, maybe you should think about it. If I can do it (even for selfish reasons) then really, anyone can. It’s a good thing to do.

I hope you meet some good people today too. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

I’m Sorry. I was wrong.

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I’m sorry, I was wrong.

When I was very young, my knowledge of other religions was limited to two facts:

  1. Catholics believed in Jesus, but they didn’t believe he rose from the dead, which is why they always depicted him still hanging on the cross.
  2. Jews believed that the only way to be right with God was to offer sacrifices, and the idea of repentance started with Jesus.

I was wrong, in both cases. To my regret, although I learnt fairly quickly that I was wrong about Catholics, I continued to believe—and to teach—the wrong fact about Jews even as an adult. I’m very sorry about this, it was ignorant, and as someone who read the Bible, including the Old Testament, I really have no excuse.

I was reminded of this recently, when reading a little red book of daily Bible studies,[1] that I inherited from my father. The book is looking at the Gospel of Matthew, and is considering John the Baptist. You may remember that John lived in the wilderness, and wore strange clothes, and called to people to repent. As John the Baptist came before Jesus, this should have been evidence enough that Jews believed in repentance—without sacrifice—otherwise John’s preaching would have made no sense.

Barclay discusses what those early Jews would have understood by repentance. It’s much the same as the Christian church today preaches. The word in Hebrew means ‘turn’ or change direction/return, so the idea was that people felt sorry for a behaviour, and therefore wanted to change direction, to turn away from what they knew was wrong. This has always been the way that people have been able to approach God—first we admit the things we are doing wrong, and then we turn away and stop those behaviours. All very New Testament, except actually it started way back, in the Hebrew Canon.

There are several instances when the Hebrews were told to repent, so that God would heal their land, or hear their prayers, or be close to them. We read about it in Ezekiel (Ezekiel 33:11). It also appears in Jeremiah (Jeremiah 31:18-19). Hosea is full of it (Hosea 14:1-2). The book of Jonah is pretty much only about repentance—a wicked nation being told to repent so they won’t be destroyed.

Repentance does of course, thread its way through the New Testament teaching too. It is important. I think it is also timeless—but maybe not something we teach about today as often as we ought. When was the last time you repented of something? Not in the regretful, I wish I hadn’t done that because it caused me a problem, kind of way, but in the, I’m honestly sorry and I will say I was wrong and try not to do it again, sort of way. Repentance, I feel, has gone out of fashion. Instead of saying we were wrong, we give a reason as to why it wasn’t our fault. Or we belittle it, and say it didn’t really matter.

Unless, of course, we are thinking about other people’s wrong-doing. Then we are very keen that they should be sorry. Then we absolutely think they should change their behaviour.

I think repentance is important. I believe it is good for us. I think it is healthy, every night, to think about what we have done wrong during the day, and to admit we were wrong, and to ask God to forgive us—and to try to change. If we never do this, never stop and deliberately think about what we have done wrong, how can we change? How can we be better people? How can we know God in any meaningful way?

I wonder if this is also true of nations. When I look at the big disputes in the world—Israel/Palestine, England/Ireland, India/Pakistan—there seems to be no solution. But everyone is looking at the wrongs (and there have undoubtedly been wrongs) committed by the other side. I wonder what would happen if nations looked at their own wrong-doings? What would happen if governments admitted they had been wrong, and promised to change? But perhaps that is not possible, perhaps the hurts go too deep, perhaps there is not enough trust that the admittance of guilt wouldn’t be misused and twisted by the other party.

Therefore, I will leave the dream of national repentance to one side, and challenge you, today, to think about what it means at a personal level. There is risk with being honest with ourselves—but not, I think, as much risk as being continually dishonest. So go on, I challenge you. Spend some time today thinking about what you have done wrong (because I don’t know anyone who genuinely believes they are perfect). Name those faults before God—and plan to turn in a new direction. It’s what Jews and Christians have been teaching for centuries, maybe it’s time we all did it.

Thanks for reading. Have a good week.
Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com
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[1] William Barclay, The Daily Study Bible: Gospel of Matthew (Edinburgh: The Saint Andrew Press, 1956).

Looking Outside of the Bubble

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I very quickly want to tell you about a meeting that I’ve just had, with a couple of people who partner with Tearfund in India. Some of the meting was confidential, but some things I can share. Talking to people who live in vastly different places, with different problems, is always good. It’s so easy to stay in our own bubble, and to worry about our own problems, and hearing about people who mainly eat rats for supper helps to keep things in proportion.

I was learning about a project Tearfund are partnering with, which has the catchy title: Transforming Masculinities. (Honestly! I kid you not, this is the title they have come up with.) Unlike the title, the work has absolutely nothing to do with people who feel they are the wrong gender, or who want a sex-change, or any of the other modern inferences that you might imagine. The work is about educating men about the rights of women—teaching husbands that their wives are equal partners, and their daughters should have the same rights as their sons—that sort of thing. Crimes against women is still a big problem in India, and educating the men might be a good way of sorting it out. Especially because men in the churches are sometimes no better, when it comes to abusing women, than men outside of the church.

Tearfund is better than me at knowing how to meet need—and how to assess it. One of the workers made the excellent point that when assessing the success of a project like this, initially, you might expect the police stats on crime against women to increase. Because more people will be reporting it rather than hiding it, telling the women that it doesn’t matter. (The long-term aim, of course, is for the crimes to stop, but reporting them officially is a first step.)

The workers also talked, as an aside, about some of their other work—like ensuring people who cannot read or write are able to access the government help that is available, or mending toilets and checking that people in the slums are using them, or ensuring there is clean water available. When you see lists of things like one toilet to every 33 people, or a clean water tap available to x number of families, it really makes you think. This is today, 2024, and there are still families sharing a single clean water tap? Really? How is this okay?

They also spoke about the issues today, which I was ignorant about. Did you know that currently (end of November 2024) the pollution in Delhi is so bad that people have been told to stay inside? So just like during Covid times, children are not able to attend school, people are struggling with child-care and online work—and those are the ones lucky enough to have a job that can happen indoors. The people who have to be out are getting ill, simply because they don’t have clean air to breathe. We talk a lot about our rights in the UK, and the sense of entitlement worries me. But surely, everyone has the right to clean air to breathe.

We need to be aware of these issues, because we are all part of the problem, aren’t we? As I said, we live in our bubble, and if climate change doesn’t directly affect us, it is easy to ignore. If our taps work (our own tap, in our own kitchen—not shared with several other families) then do we even think about clean water? And as you read this, are you hoping to catch some rats for your supper this evening? We live in a small world, we are able to be part of communities that have less than us. Please don’t just turn away. Please think about how you can be part of the change to improve their lives, because they are real people, coping with real issues, they are not just a photo on a charity poster. I know, because I chatted to them this morning.

Thank you for reading, and please don’t just forget about it.
Have a good week.
Take care.
Love, Anne x
Some photos from my last trip, which was several years ago, but I fear things may not have changed much.

Playing in a rubbish tip
Under the paving slabs is an open sewer
Wonderful, colourful, crazy traffic!

Remembrance Day Poem Reposted As Life Goes On

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Now, and Then

IKEA homeware packed in boxes,
Heaps of stuff littering the hall, squashed into the back of the car.
Last hugs, cheery goodbyes, the drive to uni.
Snippets of home, spread around the strange smelling room,
The lanky excited-scared almost-man says goodbye,
And the mother remembers.
She remembers the feel of the bowling ball weight on her hip when she carried him,
The feel of his tiny hands on her cheeks when he offered snotty kisses,
The snuffle of breath as he slept against her shoulder,
She remembers the child as she looks at the man.
As she wishes him well, holds back tears until she has driven away.

Billycans and clothes stuffed in kit-bag,
A train to London packed up tight, hurry to find the right squad.
Last hugs, tearful goodbyes, a band plays on.
Heaving the bag, look around for friends joining too,
The lanky excited-scared almost-man says goodbye,
And the mother remembers.
She remembers the feel of the bowling ball weight on her hip when she carried him,
The feel of his tiny hands on her cheeks when he offered snotty kisses,
The snuffle of breath as he slept against her shoulder,
She remembers the child as she looks at the man.
As she wishes him well, holds back tears until he has joined his unit.

The posts on Facebook show new friends and nightclubs,
Texts assure his food is fine, his studies easy.
He doesn’t discuss the drunken evenings, the sleepless nights, the fear of loneliness.
But his mother knows, she reads it in unsaid words and tired-eyed photos.
And she waits. As life goes on.

There are no letters and the News shows little,
Bold battles move to the Front, the headlines proclaim.
They do not discuss the fallen comrades, the sleepless nights, the fear of injury.
But his mother knows; she reads it in unsaid words and tired-eyed photos.
And she waits. As life goes on.

The war ends. The boy returns home.
Yet, not a boy, become a man.
A man who will not speak of horrors,
Will not discuss the stench of death,
The sight of his friends, falling.
The nights when he still hears the screams, still fears the dark.
But his mother knows; she reads it in sunken cheeks and, eyes so weary.
And she waits. As time goes on.

The term ends. The boy returns home.
Yes, still a boy, almost a man.
A boy who chats and loves to amuse,
Loves to debate the point of life,
Who meets all his friends, laughing.
The nights when they drink, talk at length, sort their beliefs.
And his mother knows, he is safe and content with life, has a future.
And she waits. As time goes on.

by Anne E. Thompson

Anne E. Thompson
Thank you for reading.
anneethompson.com
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Edinburgh University and Spurgeon’s Graduation

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After our stay at Gleneagles (see last week’s blog) we drove to Edinburgh. I had an important meeting, and Husband took Meg for a walk around the city centre (because Meg, and important meetings, would be a bad combination). Afterwards he commented on how well-behaved she was. They had encountered marching bands, bagpipes, crowds of people and other dogs. Meg had walked beside him, looking very like a working dog being trained. (He told me that when asked, he said that Meg is being trained as a Royal protection animal—but I think/hope he was joking!) It was nice for me that he had a good experience, a little Meg/Husband bonding is useful.

Meg in the City

My meeting was at the university. I had forgotten how beautiful the city of Edinburgh is, and my meeting was at New College, which is next to the castle. New College is not new, it’s a fairly old building, steeped in tradition. I was told to wait in the quad, and I walked through the arch and sat in a little square courtyard, looking at a statue of John Knox, and arched windows and turrets, and stone steps. There is a feeling of history, of scholars through the ages studying Scripture, testing their beliefs—and I realised that I really want to be part of that. We will see—I will let you know what happens next.

The Quad of New College
View from New College

My current studies are now officially finished, and it was my graduation ceremony at the weekend. At first I wasn’t going to attend, because I graduated with my teaching degree many years ago, and have since attended the various graduations of my children, and I felt rather old to be dressing in a cap and gown and having a photo taken. But then, when my final results arrived, I found that I wanted to mark the occasion—to finish my time at college with ‘an event.’ I’m glad now that I did.

My MA is from Manchester University, but I have been studying at Spurgeon’s College, and they had arranged for the graduation to be at a big church in Croydon. We went by train, and then tram, and then walked down a residential street and I wondered if we were lost. But the church is huge, and modern, so it was easy enough to find. Everything was very efficient. I didn’t have a paper receipt or ticket, which I found very unnerving (this probably reflects my age—but honestly, what would happen if my phone lost power and all those clever QR codes were lost?) In the event, I only needed my name, and then I was directed by various members of staff (very kind of them to work on a Saturday) to the ‘robing room.’

The gown was difficult, and kept slipping around, and the hood—which was a pleasing colour—tended to sit in a rather racy off-the-shoulder position rather than the neat and tidy scholarly look that was intended. I had taken safety pins to try and secure the gown to my dress, but this resulted in the front of the dress riding up in an undignified manner. As for the hat—well! It felt fine in the fitting room, but as soon as I left, I’m sure it shrunk. It absolutely refused to sit securely, and perched precariously on my head, falling off if I moved too quickly. No one else seemed to have any problem at all, and the auditorium filled up with students looking tidy and elegant, and staff members in a rainbow of universities’ caps and gowns. (Actually, some of the staff graduated from universities with decidedly daft hats. I realise that before applying to do a PhD, a very important factor should be what the graduation outfit is, because for evermore, that is the cap and gown you will have to wear for every academic occasion. Some of the staff had not done their due research here. But I felt feedback would be inappropriate at this point.)

It was fun meeting all my student friends again, catching up with news, hearing what their plans are. We haven’t met since before I started writing my dissertation, which is months ago. Some of my family came to support me, which was a lovely surprise.

There were group photos (the photographer tidied me up a bit beforehand, which reminded me of my mother, who always seems to tell me to comb my hair, even though I am quite old now). The actual service was very long (graduation ceremonies always are). This one was even longer, because lots of the graduates were now Baptist ministers, so there was a sort of church service, complete with extra-long sermon from Rick Warren (our Chancellor) and several hymns and prayers. But I’m still glad I went, and they gave a short bio as each student went on stage, which made it feel very personal. And most importantly, the cap stayed on my head for the whole walk across the stage (it fell off when I sat down, but that didn’t matter).

I hope everything stays in place for you this week. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

A painting (in the café next to New College) which I really like. Unfortunately I don’t know the artist’s name, but I will add it when I find out.

anneethompson.com
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