I like starting clubs…

I like starting clubs. Always have. Some have been more successful than others.

One of the first clubs I started, aged about 7, was the SSO Club. I made badges, and put a pot next to the telephone labelled with SSO Club Funds, please give generously in bright letters. I figured that when people came to borrow our telephone (which happened a lot) they might mistake the club funds for the telephone donations box. Club funds would be spent on snacks (sweets) for our club meetings. SSO stood for: Secret Service to Others and the plan was that we would do ‘good deeds’ without anyone knowing. I devised a series of merits that could be earned when the good deeds were revealed at club meetings (while we ate the copious amount of sweets earned through misdirected telephone funding).

We never actually had a meeting, as no one else ever joined the club (my brother was meant to, but he was an awkward little wotsit, and was never easily persuaded into playing my games). Nor did we ever earn any funds. I do still have the badges somewhere though.

At Junior school, I once joined another club, a song-and-dance group that my friends invented. I could neither sing nor dance, so they put me in charge of costumes. This was a mistake, as I have never been even slightly interested in clothes. I think they had visions of Pans People, shimmying in shiny sexy outfits. I asked my mother if I could borrow the jester’s outfits that we had worn in the Letchworth carnival that year. When I arrived at the practice studio (Carol Watkin’s garden shed) they were less than excited to be dressed in bright yellow and red shapeless tunics—one size fits all—more tent than bikini. I don’t remember whether I was actually fired, but I don’t remember attending any rehearsals after this. They were never famous.

As an 18-year-old, I took over the church youth group (not sure whether this counts as ‘starting’ a group). I ran it in the exact same way that they youth club from my previous church had been run, with a variety of social events, light refreshments, and a 10-minute religious talk at the end. I was quite a stickler for the religious talk, and insisted that the embarrassed adult who had agreed to drive us all to bowling in Crawley also did a talk in McDonald’s afterwards. That club was more of a success than the SSO and when I left for uni, I handed over a group of about 20 teenagers (I think my sister led it after I left, and then my brother—same genes).

The adult Anne still likes starting clubs. I have run a breakfast club for teenagers, a baking club on Sunday afternoons, and have been involved in running various other groups and clubs in the town and at church. At present, I am doing nothing…though I feel the village is crying out for a cake-eating discussion club (because I like making cakes and discussing things). We will see.

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The Best of Days, the Worst of Days…

Posted by anneethompson

Today has been a mix of highs and lows. Mostly highs, so I will start there.

As you know (if you read my blog regularly) we had booked a house in Italy for the summer, but popped home after a couple of weeks to attend my niece’s wedding. After the wedding, we returned to La Thuile for the rest of August. It felt like coming home as we drove from the airport, past ‘our river’ that races through the valley, to the view of ‘our mountain’ with the glacier that reflects all the moods of the sun.

Anyway, today I suggested that we should go to a café for an espresso (which is one of my favourite things about Italy—sipping a coffee in the sunshine, somewhere beautiful). Husband suggested that rather than walk to the nearby café (‘our café’) we should try somewhere new, on the other side of town.

He directed me along lanes, through the park next to the river, up narrow streets. We arrived at a pretty building next to the river, with a family sitting in lounge-chairs in the garden. At our arrival, they all jumped up, assured us that they were open, and the man showed us to a table in the shade. He then disappeared.

I looked around. On one side was the river, on the other was mountains—all very pretty, perfect for a leisurely coffee. The man then reappeared, carrying cutlery and glassware, and a basket of fresh bread. He smiled welcoming as he set our table. Lots of eye-contact between Husband and I, neither of us spoke. The man hurried away.

Now what? The man was so welcoming, the bread looked freshly baked, dare we say that we only wanted a coffee? Husband said we should just order something small (we already had dinner reservations for the evening at ‘our restaurant’). The man reappeared with the menu, and we chose a couple of dishes. Neither of us understand much Italian, so it was a bit random. What arrived were platters of cheese and meat, which went perfectly with the house wine. We finished, an hour later, with the espresso that we had come for. It was all very unexpected, and very lovely. A good time.

After our lunch, we discussed what to do, as I have hurt my leg and can’t walk far. Husband suggested we went ‘up the mountain on the cable car.’ I knew this was something he really wanted to do, and we had just enjoyed a lovely lunch in the sunshine, so I agreed. I hate heights. It was even worse than I imagined.

The ‘cable car’ is not a cable car, it is a chairlift—designed for skiers in the winter, and mountain bikers in the summer. I watched the chairs as they flew down the mountain, turning at the bottom, slowing for passengers, then continuing back up the mountain in a continuous loop, never actually stopping. I saw a few people nearly getting bonked when they stood up but didn’t move out of the way quickly enough, and I tried to learn from their mistake as we joined the line of young men with bikes. We fed our tickets into the machine, and stepped forward. A man appeared from his cubicle and hovered near the emergency-stop button. We stood in place, the chair arrived behind us, we sat back, a bar was lowered in front of us, and we rose towards the sky.

I decided it would be best to keep my eyes shut. This worked fine on the way up. It felt like flying, I could hear birds and smell the pine trees, and the temperature grew gradually cooler as we rose. We reached the top, Husband yelled at me to let go of the safety-bar, a man hovered near the emergency-stop button, I leaped off the chair, remembered to hurry to the side, the chair sailed past me and I was on solid ground. All great. I felt rather pleased with myself, and enjoyed looking at the views and watching the young men as they raced down the mountain on their bikes. Then we decided to go back down. Then it all went wrong.

As we fed our tickets into the machine, the man emerged again to hover near the stop-button. Obviously we looked incompetent. The chair swept behind us, I sat, the bar was lowered, I shut my eyes and pretended I was flying. Then Husband (who I have now forgiven) mentioned that the safety bar was raised and lowered by the passengers—in other words, him. That felt very unsafe. If you have a fear of heights, you will know that the fear is connected with falling, and the belief that somehow you might fling yourself over the precipice. I am not scared in airplanes, because I cannot fall out. I am terrified on cliff edges because I might fall over. Now I was being told that if I lifted the bar (yes, I know that this was entirely in my control and wouldn’t happen, but fear is not rational)—if I lifted the bar, I would plummet to my death. I took deep breaths. Then Husband mentioned something about the view below, and fool that I am, I opened my eyes. I was not flying. I was suspended on an insecure chair, miles above ground, with nothing but a moveable bar between me and certain death. My heart stopped, I thought I might vomit (pity the mountain bikers below!) and I started to shake all over. I think I whimpered.

For the next few terrifying moments we sailed through the air. I shut my eyes and prayed very hard and tried not to think about how it would feel to fall. Then we arrived. The same man hovered near the emergency button (they didn’t seem to do that for anyone else!) and I managed to stand, to move out of the way, to walk to the nearest bench. I didn’t speak. Somehow, I survived. But it was bad, very bad.

I hope your day is full of good things, and that you cope with the bad things calmly.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

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Weddings, then and now.

Posted by anneethompson

We came home from Italy in time for my niece’s wedding. I really enjoyed it—it was an afternoon full of prettiness, and declarations of love, and being with family. I haven’t been to many weddings recently, so I was interested to see how much things have changed from when I was married in the 1980s. Many things were the same, but here are some of the differences:

Venue. Most people were married in church. My friends who married in a registry office (the only alternative to marriage in a church) did not include the ‘traditional’ elements of the wedding. So no long white dress, no walking down an aisle with the father of the bride, no music. A registry office wedding tending to be brief and functional, with very few people invited to attend.

Today, the possible venues are varied. My niece’s wedding was in a barn, and the layout was almost exactly the same as any small chapel, with an aisle and flowers and rows of seats facing the front. There was even a wooden lectern to rest a book on. In England a non-church wedding can’t include hymns or prayers or Bible readings, but there was music.

I sort of understand why ‘the church’ demands that non-church weddings don’t include anything religious, because God, and the worship of him, is not a game; not something to pick up and use like something of no importance. Therefore they want to regulate how their holy things—the holy book, hymns, prayers—are presented. However, I feel sad that if someone wishes to include God in their wedding but for some reason does not feel able to marry in a church, they are excluded from all outward signs of this. They can still invite God to be present, and they can pray internally, but I feel sad that English law makes it difficult for a couple to include God unless they want a church wedding. Over time, every marriage faces challenges, and wanting God to bless your vows, including him in the marriage seems sensible to me. I think a wedding is less likely to use religious things inappropriately than other places (like football matches, where hymns are allowed to be sung).

Vows. Some of the vows said at a wedding are legal requirements. These are the same wherever you marry, and they don’t seem to have changed since I was married. They have to be word-perfect, and said in the presence of witnesses and a person certified to register a marriage. In the past, at a registry office, these were the only vows said. Today, it seems popular to add your own vows.

Church weddings also include certain vows, as listed below:

I, N, take you, N,

to be my husband,

to have and to hold

from this day forward;

for better, for worse,

for richer, for poorer,

in sickness and in health,

to love and to cherish,

till death us do part;

according to God’s holy law.

In the presence of God I make this vow.

When I was married, the bride also promised to obey her husband.

Couples today seem to write their own vows. I’m not sure what I think about this. I was wondering what I would promise if I wrote my own vows. Marriage lasts a really long time. I think being faithful is important (because otherwise, what is the point of a marriage?) Promising to forgive is essential, and to try and listen. I think respect is important, and for me, being able to share anything and to laugh together lots, matters. Staying together, even when times are tough, is also part of being married.

Gender Roles. Traditionally, the bride was given away by her father, and accepted by her husband. I was completely happy with this when I was married (though actually, my brother gave me away). Today, many brides consider this sexist (not sure why I didn’t!) Even if they walk into the venue with their father, they may have words that don’t involve being given from one man to another.

There were other differences, but these were the main ones. However, the occasion was still about a couple committing to each other, it was still about love, and everyone dressed in their best clothes and arrived hoping to have fun. There was still a meal, and lots to drink, speeches (though these are not always said by males only today) and laughter.

The Cake. When I was married, we continued the tradition of having a tiered fruit cake, with formal white icing. The bottom tier was cut and shared with guests, the top tier was kept and used as a christening cake when the first baby was born. As people tended not to have children immediately, most couples removed the icing and shoved the cake in the freezer until they needed it. Eating it a few years later felt decidedly dodgy, but as far as I know, no one was ever poisoned.

Today, many couples choose not to have a fruit cake, which seems an excellent plan to me (does anyone other than my brother like eating fruit cake???) There is still a cake, and it is still cut (which is a tradition which I never liked, and I wanted to leave out from my wedding, but I was told there must be a photo!) The wedding we attended had a red velvet cake and chocolate brownies to share, which are a much better idea.

Whatever traditions are followed, weddings are still about love, and a couple committing to stay with each other. Rather marvelous I think. Thanks for reading. Take care.
Love, Anne x

Next Monday I’ll tell you about our return trip to Italy. It was very interesting to live somewhere different for a while, and learn about a small town in the Alps.

Thanks for reading.
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Do You Want the Good News or the Bad News?

Posted by anneethompson

Good News or Bad News?

Is the message of the Bible good news or bad news? Often the physical book even describes itself as a ‘Good News’ Bible, and Christians often refer to the good news of the gospel message. But is it good?

Sometimes this feels a little ironic to me. When churches then go on to explain how to ‘become a Christian’ a person must meet certain criteria, I think it all starts to sound more like bad news! I was taught that to ‘be a Christian’ I must understand that Jesus and the Holy Spirit and God are all one, I must repent of my sin and ask for forgiveness, I must acknowledge that Jesus died for my sin, and ask to be filled with the Holy Spirit. This was all achieved by praying ‘the prayer’ which somehow encompassed all the above. Going forward, I should attend church, read my Bible every day, praying frequently—confessing my new sins and striving to live how God wanted me to live. Most difficult of all (in my view) I should constantly be looking for ways to tell other people how to be a Christian, encouraging them to undergo the same process. Anyone who did not meet the above criteria was trapped in their sin and doomed to hell and eternal torment. Very bad news indeed. Most of the people who I love do not fit into the rather narrow category above.

Yet, when I read the Bible (point seven above!) things seem a little different. Jesus said he came to show people who God is, and he accepted people before they had done any of the above. Sometimes he told a person they needed to change their life, or give away their money, or repent of something they were doing wrong—but this was always after they had come to him. There wasn’t a form to complete, or a waiting list; the disciples didn’t regulate who could approach (and when they tried to, Jesus told them off!) People simply came. People were simply accepted.

I also read that after they came, after they had been accepted, they generally changed, they often wanted to be different, better, people. But the changing, the wanting to be changed, was afterwards. It was not an entry criteria. And they tended to differ in what they actually believed, they had different views of theology (which is shown in the later books in the Bible, where we see them having arguments about things).

Several of the books in the Bible were written by Paul, and I’m still not sure what authority they should have (as I have discussed in previous blogs) but I do think his views are helpful today. One of his letters describes Jesus’s mission as reconciling people to God, and that a Christian’s mission is to continue this—to be an ambassador, helping people to be reconciled with God. I do not, personally, feel I should be telling people what they are doing wrong, or insisting that they believe certain things (like in the Trinity) or changing their behaviour. But I would like to tell them that God wants to accept them (right now, just as they are, warts and all!) I would like to remind them that God wants them to be reconciled with him, and that everything that’s wrong in their lives does not count any more. All the rest of it—how they personally live out that truth—is between them and God.

Perhaps this is good news. Perhaps this is what our message should be. What do you think? Good news or bad news?

Thank you for reading. My next blog will be more about our holiday in Italy at the beginning of August. Enjoy your day.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

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*****

Before Italy…

Posted by anneethompson

We went to Italy for a couple of weeks. It was a variation of the trip we planned for 2020, when we rented a house in the Italian Alps for a few months, just to see how it would be to stay somewhere beautiful for a while. That trip was cancelled—another victim of the Covid lockdowns—so when the same house was free for the beginning of August, we booked it.

I arrived exhausted, mainly due to the last days of July. It had been busy—much too busy to call the wasp man, so I told Husband that we had a nest, and he said he hadn’t seen any wasps, so neither of us phoned the wasp man. Which was a mistake, but we’ll come to that later.

You will remember my sister was staying? Well, she returned to Canada on the 30^th of July, so we all met the night before for a barbecue at my brother’s house. To say goodbye. I hate saying goodbye to my sister, she’s a part of me, there’s some strange physical bond, and Canada is much too far away. When we returned from our family trip to Cromer (see an earlier blog) I had to make lots of scones, because all the ones I had made previously were eaten by my sister, and me, and various relatives who came to see my sister.

The dog also had to go into kennels, and I hate that now she’s so old, just in case…

Anyway, I survived saying goodbye to both of them again, and there was no time to think because the 30^th was a whirlwind of making beds, cleaning the house, preparing meals for stray children (who aren’t children any more, but you know what I mean) when they arrived. In between time, I flung items of clothing in the general direction of a suitcase.

At about 2pm, my eldest son arrived from Vietnam. He’d been working there, managed to dislocate his leg, and had to be collected by taxi from the airport (because no one else was free). He hobbled in on his crutches, looking all tired and relieved to be in England, and thin. I don’t think he’d eaten much and he’d done a lot of trekking through jungles. When confronted with a tired thin son, mothers like to cook. I was busy, so cooked a frozen pizza (but the thought was there). Younger son carried the suitcase upstairs, I put a load of Vietnam-dirty clothes in the washing machine, then smiled a welcoming smile as our first visitors arrived.

At about 2:30, all my in-laws arrived for a cream tea to celebrate my parents-in-law’s diamond wedding anniversary. We had put up bunting, and decorated tables, and it was sunny so we could sit outside (with the wasps—you remember them?) Everyone seemed contented though, and it was a happy celebration.

At 4pm, people left, and I had time to clean up (mostly) and then fold the clothes that I had thrown towards the suitcase, packing them properly. I cooked dinner for the family (they all came back for the wedding anniversary and to come on holiday). I was asleep within minutes of going to bed. But only managed a few hours because the taxi arrived at about 4 am. Then off to the chaos of Gatwick.

I will tell you about the joys of travelling with someone in a wheelchair in a later blog. Italy will have to wait too, otherwise this will be too long. We returned yesterday, ready to attend my niece’s wedding (another fun celebration I expect) and I will leave you with a few pictures of Italy, simply because it is beautiful.

Hope your week goes well. I will tell you about the very best place in Italy next week. Thanks for reading. Take care.
Love, Anne x

A storybook place…there might be dragons…

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The Tiny Bridesmaid

Posted by anneethompson

Weddings

I love weddings, don’t you? They can sometimes be a bit long, all that waiting around for the photographs and not enough comfy seats—but mostly they are full of people promising to love each other, and lots of pretty stuff. I enjoy looking at pretty stuff.

I recently went to a wedding. I wasn’t an invited guest, but I have watched the bride grow up, so I asked if she would mind if I snuck into the back of the church to watch. She didn’t mind, so I donned some suitable clothes, and joined the smiling group at the church.

It was a Catholic church, and I’ve never been to a wedding at a Catholic church, so I was interested that the priest served communion mid-service, and there was an amount of bowing to the altar that tends to not happen in protestant churches. Other than that, it was the same really.

Of course, the absolute best thing was the tiny bridesmaid who changed her mind about wanting to be a bridesmaid as soon as she arrived at church. She must have been about three years old, and she appeared at the back of the church with the bridal party. I was right at the back, so had the perfect view as she was directed to walk down the aisle, basket of petals clutched in her little hands, a halo of flowers on her head.

She walked a couple of steps, decided that this was not something she wanted to do, and ran back to the doorway. A grown-up bridesmaid whispered encouragement, trying to persuade her down the aisle, but she was having none of it. First she shook her head, then noticing the flower-headdress, she yanked it down so it sat round her neck like a noose. The adult pulled the flowers back up into her hair, and tried again to send her down the aisle. A small boy, dressed the same as the groomsmen appeared. I think he was the ring-bearer, and he obviously sensed something fun was happening. The children looked at each other, mutiny afoot.

Another bridesmaid appeared, possibly the mother. She wasn’t taking any nonsense, she grabbed a hand of both children, and sounding terribly jolly, said they would all walk down the aisle together. Off they went, past me, hidden from sight as they hurried to the front.

The bride (brides are always beautiful, always) and her father appeared in the doorway. They hesitated, and suddenly the small bridesmaid reappeared, running full pelt back up the aisle, heading for the bride (or the doorway, hard to know). Before she reached her goal, a man—I assume her father—shot out from a side aisle and scooped her up. I didn’t see her again until after the service, when she had managed to lose the basket of petals, and the headdress, and her shoes. She was very cute.

I was therefore, full of wedding thoughts this week. This was excellent timing, as my daughter ‘popped round’ with her boyfriend, to tell me they are engaged. How exciting! Her fiancé had asked Husband’s permission ages ago, but he hadn’t told me, so the news was a complete surprise and very lovely. I am going to be the mother-of-the-bride. What a thrill. I hope I manage to fulfil the role better than the little bridesmaid did…though I cannot hope to look as lovely.

Thanks for reading. I hope you have some lovely events this week too.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

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*****

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A Good Day

Posted by anneethompson

Sometimes you just know a day is going to be good, don’t you? Everything seems to work well together, and even unrelated events turn out well. And sometimes, the opposite is true, and we go to bed wishing we had never got out of it because everything we have attempted has gone wrong.

Today, is a good day. I wasn’t sure it would be, because when I got home yesterday, tired from a day at college and a long drive, my back was hurting. I went to check on the animals, and there was lots of movement in the nest on the pond, and definite sounds of cheeping. Mother duck wasn’t moving, and when she saw me looking, she tried to cover herself with dirt—not sure whether she was trying to hide or was securing a hatchling that wanted to escape.

A duck will stay on the nest until the first hatchlings decide to leave the nest, then she’ll abandon any unhatched eggs (even if they’re nearly hatched) and take the ducklings to water. After they have fed, she’ll relocate to a new place and gather her ducklings under her. Any ducklings that haven’t managed to keep up will drown or be eaten by all the predators that swoop in as soon as they hear the cheeping. Of say, 25 eggs she lays, about half will hatch, and of those 13, maybe one will survive to adulthood. It’s a tough world out there.

Anyway, last night I had a choice: 1. I could leave them to their fate. 2. I could risk drowning and try to catch the mother, put her into the chicken coop and then try to catch the ducklings. Mother would then raise the ducklings in safety. 3. I could leave the mother (because she is the hardest to catch) and remove the ducklings. I would then have to raise the ducklings myself in the garage, which is a lot of work and I have an essay to write. What would you have done?

I decided that my back hurt too much, plus I was tired, so I left them. I would reassess the situation in the morning.

Today, I woke about 6:30 and went straight to the pond. A miracle! It looked as if the mother had only just left the nest. She was on the pond with 10 ducklings, but there were no predators, she was very relaxed, and the ducklings were still full of energy. I went to collect Husband (who muttered about ‘Husband-abuse’ and having to wade into pond before 7 a.m.) We knew the drill: First, secure the area (cats locked into workshop while one of us stayed at the pond to deter flying predators). In the few minutes it took to lock up the cats, the trees filled with crows and magpies. Collect big bucket as dumping place for ducklings. Catch mother. (Unless you have ever caught an angry duck on a big pond, you have no idea how miraculous this was.) Put mother into chicken coop, and turf out grumpy chickens (will have to combine the flocks this evening, which will cause them some angst.) Catch remaining ducklings, reunite ducklings and mother. Make coop safe, put down fresh food and water, leave them to settle. Phew! All achieved before my morning coffee. I put my pyjamas into the wash and made a drink.

When the post arrived, there was a little package. It was a painting that I bought online. I have often seen the artist’s work on twitter, and he does some tiny paintings, the size of a coin, and some slightly bigger. This one was of London (I happen to like his London ones best) and it was being sold on a tiny easel. It’s the perfect size to brighten up a dark corner of my study, and only cost £15 including postage, so I followed the link to Etsy and bought it. I wasn’t sure what to expect, it’s hard to assess a painting online. But it really is perfect, and such good value for an acrylic.

http://www.acmart.co.uk is worth a peek.

As I said, today is going to be a good day. Hope your day is good too.
Thank you for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

Losing and Winning

Posted by anneethompson

Hello and how was your weekend? Mine was very mixed, with some truly lovely parts clouded by a loss.

Bluebells still beautiful, sheep looking fed-up.

Saturday started with a run down the lane, the bluebells are still holding on and the field was full of some grumpy-looking sheep. Am assuming they’re pregnant and fed-up (I remember that feeling).

The afternoon was spent at Lingfield Races. We were invited to a summer party, and we donned our smart clothes—so hard to walk in heels when you haven’t worn them for a while—and joined some friends at the racecourse. They had booked a private suite, which was rather lovely, with a buffet lunch and a balcony overlooking the course. I scoured the race details, trying to pick the winner for each race, and failing completely.

It’s very hard to predict which horse will win (which I guess is why there are so many bookies). After each race, I compared the age, weight of jockey, distance they had travelled, last time they had run, trying to transpose the information to the next race. It didn’t work, I lost. After a few races I switched strategies, and backed the favourite. That didn’t work either. Nor did choosing the prettiest jockey colours, nor the best named horse. We walked down to the training ring to see if we could spot the winner there, but it was empty except for a man in dirty jeans—and I didn’t think he was likely to be winning any races! In the end I backed whichever horse was grey, which I believe was my grandad’s strategy many years ago. He never won anything either.

Trying to ignore the uncomfortable heels. (If my mother had been there, my hair would look less scruffy.)

Sunday we went to church. We have joined Holy Trinity, the little anglican church in the village, and I love it. It is full of friendly faces, and I find the words of the liturgy to be beautiful, the building inspiring, and taking the sacrament is being part of something holy. Having been raised a staunch baptist, I am noticing the differences, and revelling in approaching God from a different angle. Perhaps everyone should change denomination mid-life, so they can understand the good parts of both.

After church we always have brunch, which is another new tradition (since Covid) that makes me look forward to Sundays. (I used to dread them—they were all about being uncomfortable and doing my duty and working hard). We had banana and walnut and cinnamon pancakes with orange juice and coffee. Doesn’t that sound good?

Then we did some gardening, with my old dog beside me and the cats pouncing on the weeds I dug up, and the sunshine smiling on us. A peaceful day.

I needed a peaceful day, because a much-loved uncle died recently. He was the sort of uncle who you knew would smile if you turned up unannounced at the door, an uncle who told amazing stories (which you were never entirely sure whether they were true), the sort of uncle who wanted to be part of my life. When my children came along, he wanted to know them too. He was part of the stability of my life. I have been very lucky, my childhood was built on love and family. I will leave you with the wedding photo of my grandparents, which is where that stability and love started. Losing an uncle is sad, but mostly I feel grateful that he was my uncle, because family is precious.

My Granny and Grampy on their wedding day. Those heels look uncomfortable too!

Hold on to what is precious this week, and let things that don’t matter evaporate. Life is too short for anything else.
Thanks for reading. Take care.
Love, Anne x

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My Week

Posted by anneethompson

Hello, how was your week? I am writing this in a rush, because it’s the end of my college semester and essays are due and exams need to be revised for.

Actually, if you take away the fear of failing the above, it has been quite a fun week. My lectures were interesting, and I managed to meet my daughter for lunch one day and have a good chat. I also managed to lose my purple gloves, which wasn’t so good, but maybe they’ll turn up.

We did Eschatology this week. Not sure if it’s possible to do that in one week, but we tried. (This is a fancy word for talking about ‘the end times’ and what might happen.) It sounds more exciting than it was.

Wednesday we had a lecture about digital theology. This was more interesting than it sounds. It showed all the ways that we now use technology, and how it has stopped being weird and has become part of everyday life (even my mother can now shop online). This extends to us actually incorporating technology into our bodies, so lots of people have artificial hips, or new knees. Some people have brain implants to help control an illness, or prosthetic limbs. The natural extension of this would be sort of cyber-hybrid-people. Some people apparently hope to ‘upload’ their brain into computers, or replace enough of their broken body to delay death for decades, maybe even longer. So we were asked to consider whether technology, with its ever-present, all-knowing, reaching-inside-us aspects was beginning to replace religion. Do people look to technology where they once looked to God? And how should Christians react to this?

Thursday I had a Hebrew test, when I desperately tried to remember all the different verb forms (and mostly failed, but remembered enough to pass). The big exam is in a couple of weeks, so I have verb paradigms scattered around the house in the belief that if I have copies of them next to the loo and stuck on the fridge door, I will magically assimilate them. Not working so far…Maybe future theologians will be able to simply upload a file of them straight into the memory part of their brain.

Friday I wrote an essay. Well, to be accurate, I deleted most of an essay, to try and squash it into the tiny word-limit that has been set. I have always talked too much, now I find that I also write too much, and squeezing all my arguments, and referring to various scholars, into a measly 4,000 words is very difficult. I have to evaluate a book, so I made rough notes, and this came to over 10,000 words before I’d even started to refer to other scholars or give my own opinions. To make it even harder, every time I refer to someone I have to add a footnote (which counts as part of the word count) saying what they wrote and when, and I can’t use contractions (‘would not’, instead of ‘wouldn’t’) which all adds to the length. Writing the first draft was great fun, and I wrote a blinder! Now I have to delete most of it and hope it still makes sense.

Then it was the weekend, which is when I try to clean the house and have conversations that aren’t linked to theology. Not very good at either of those things. I did however move all the unattractive cleaning products off the downstairs washroom window sill and replace them with a plant, and one of those smelly diffuser things that I was given for Christmas. It smells quite posh in there now. Hoping it will help me to learn the verb paradigms that are stuffed behind the toilet rolls. Hope you have a great week, whatever you’ve got planned. Thanks for reading.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com

Being Part of the Story

Posted by anneethompson

In a novel, every character has a back story. The main plot might be about a governess falling in love with the master of the house, but before she met him, she was a poor orphan, raised by an uncaring aunt and sent to a harsh boarding school. Sometimes we learn the history right at the beginning, and sometimes the information is dripped to us, silver drops of information given as the story unfolds. Occasionally, the back story is more interesting than the main plot.

In real life, people have a back story too. Sometimes we learn it when we meet them, usually we discover it as we get to know them better. But we never learn the whole story, we never see the entire cast of people that influenced them, we never completely understand.

Weirdly, our own lives are like that too, but in reverse. We know the back story—who shaped us, what moulded us into the people we are today—but we don’t know the next bit. We don’t know what will happen next, what is coming in our life, and what will happen after we have gone. We also don’t know who we have influenced, how many people we have been the back story for.

After Christmas, as the old year ends and a new one arrives, we start to take stock. To think about these things in our own life. Have we lived a good year? Will the next one be better?

I was thinking about this while I read the bit in the Bible when the father of John the Baptist, Zechariah, regains his speech and he makes a long prophecy all about his baby son and the man who would come after him (Jesus). It’s a song about being saved from enemies, serving God without fear, being led into peace. I’m sure when he said it, he believed it was true.

But here’s the thing. The people who heard that prophecy would then have watched the baby grow into a weird man who lived in the desert, eating locusts and wild honey, shouting about God and then being beheaded. Not much there about peace, not exactly saved from enemies. And it gets worse, because pretty soon after that, instead of being saved from Roman occupation, everything got harder for the Jews, their temple was destroyed, they were scattered around the world. Generations later, they may have heard about Zechariah’s words, shaken their heads, and agreed he was wrong. So very, very wrong.

It is only after all these things, now we know more about why the baby John came, how he was part of the plan for Jesus, part of the bigger plan of God, that we understand. God’s plan was never to save the Jews from the Romans, he had a bigger plan. Zechariah was part of the plan, but he didn’t understand it, he didn’t even really understand what the plan was, or how it would unfold. But he was part of it. His life mattered beyond what he could see.

I want my life to matter, don’t you? Sometimes it feels like it doesn’t matter at all, I have never achieved anything great—even my garden is bit of a mess. But if I keep trying to live how God wants me to live, talking to him, trying to respond to his voice, then I can be part of the plan, even if I don’t see it. The great people of history were all influenced by someone, and those people, the hidden characters of the back story, were crucial to the outcome. When you think of someone great, a person in history who achieved something wonderful, try to imagine who was in their back story. Someone taught them to be kind, to be brave, to control their temper, and without those people, the greatness wouldn’t exist.

I might always be in the background, I might never be a great leader of people, a famous author, the person who changes the world. But I am part of the back story, even if I don’t actually see it, and so are you. We matter, we influence the outcome, we just have to keep trying to be the people who we are meant to be. The wonderful thing is that this never ends, however old we are, however ill we might be, we can still be part of the back story. What we say and do, how we live, can matter, even in the tiniest of ways, it matters. We can all be part of the plan.

Thanks for reading. Have a good week, and happy new year.
Take care.
Love, Anne x

anneethompson.com

Anne E Thompson

Author

life

I like starting clubs…

The Best of Days, the Worst of Days…

Weddings, then and now.

Do You Want the Good News or the Bad News?

Before Italy…

The Tiny Bridesmaid

A Good Day

Losing and Winning

My Week

Being Part of the Story

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