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The Retelling of Tigers and Strawberries

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

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

Suddenly, he stopped. There was nowhere to go.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was absolutely delicious.

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

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Counting Stars : Part 13

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This story has been removed, edited, and is now available from Amazon as a kindle book.

Counting Stars by Anne E Thompson

The story of a family, that gradually builds to a gripping thriller. One character has undergone brain surgery, and clearly demonstrates the feelings and struggles that this entails.

For UK readers the link is:

For US readers, the link is:

An Easter Story

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The Sword Pierced Soul

by Anne E Thompson

     “I watched my son die today. My beautiful boy, beaten, battered and left to die. And my heart broke. I held my cloak close and I remembered the weight of him as a babe, like a boulder on my hip, wriggling to be free, to run and jump and climb. Those legs will run no more.
Those limbs, I was so proud when they grew. I remember when he grew as tall as me, then taller even than Joseph. I remember watching him, stretched out as he ate, those long limbs seemed to go on forever. “I grew him,” I used to think with pride. Those limbs will not sprawl relaxed in my home ever again.
I watched his hands, the hands that used to pat me cheekily on the head when he’d grown tall. Those strong hands which laboured with wood, which helped me carry heavy loads, which lifted young children playfully. They are no longer strong. I saw them bang nails through the flesh, felt that I heard the sound of bone shattering over the thump of the hammer, heard his ragged breath as they forced the cross upright. And I wondered if I too might die. But I watched. I am his mother and I would not leave him alone. When they tried to take me home, when they told me to shield my eyes, avert my gaze, I did not. For he was my son. I would never leave him alone, not at such an anguished hour of need.
Others watched. Some women were there, terrified and hanging back. Not me, I am his mother. I stood with John, where he could see me. What could they do to me that was worse than this?
Some watched who hated him. They mocked and spat and called abuse. It could not hurt him now, I thought, let them shout.
“He trusts in God,” they called, “Let God save him now,” and they laughed, even as he died they laughed.
Yet even God deserted him by the end and that was hardest to bear. He called out with a loud shout, asking why God had turned from him.
“My God,” he called in anguish, “why have you forsaken me?”
But I was there. I did not leave. I saw them crucify him, naked upon a cross. No mother wants to see her grown son naked, but still I did not look away. I was there at the beginning, I would stay with him until the end.
The soldiers took his clothes, for fabric is costly and even that of a criminal should not go to waste. Most they tore and shared between them but not his tunic. They cast lots for that, not wanting to spoil something precious. Yet my son was precious and they destroyed him.

        It began last night. They woke me from my sleep and warned me there was trouble. He had been arrested, taken from a meal with his friends and questioned by the temple authorities. They feared the invaders, so he was then referred to a court of Godless law, a place that feared no God.
They told me that he was scourged, beaten with whips that removed chunks of flesh as they struck. He was mocked and abused, then brought to this place.
I came, stumbling through streets full of people, full of noise and smells and fear and hatred. I came to this place, this Godforsaken hill beyond the city wall and I saw my son, my boy, diminished, shrunken somehow. I saw that what they had told me was true, smelt the repugnant stink of excrement mingle with the metallic stench of blood. I heard the shouts of abuse, the curses of the guards, the screams from the prisoners, the wails from friends. And him, like an oasis of calm amidst the turmoil, suffering but at peace.
And he saw me. Those dark eyes that as a baby had watched me intently when he fed. Those eyes that twinkled merrily when he teased me and became serious when he wanted to explain something important. Those eyes, red rimmed with exhaustion now, turned to me. Even hanging there, with parched mouth and dried lips, he spoke to me. His voice was hoarse, for he had refused the wine they offered, but I heard him well. A mother knows her child’s voice. I stood with John and my son told me that this was to be my son now and he was to care for me as a mother. Even in his torment he cared for me, fulfilled his duty as my son.
Still I would not leave. Then it ended. The sky had turned as black as my world and he drew his last breath. It was finished.
Those who had mocked became silent, some cried, some beat their breasts in despair. The blackness of the sky frightened them and many fled, wondering at what they had done.
Then I left, I let them lead me away. My soul was broken and my heart beat even though I bid it stop. My boy was gone, my firstborn, special baby, was no more. I carried that knowledge like a rock within me, I would have rather died in his place. How can I live, continue with my life knowing he is gone? There would be no more sunshine or laughter, nothing matters now. The core of me was gone. I could not even cry.
Afterwards, I could not rest and I heard strange stories. They said the soldiers pierced his side, to check there was no life in him. His blood had separated so they took him down, a solid corpse that had no life. A man came and took the body, they said they followed and knew where he lay, in a tomb that was guarded. They told me of strange things, of the temple curtain torn in two, of dead men walking and boulders breaking open. I do not know. I only know my boy is gone. That is all that matters.
It should not have been like this. It was so recently that people praised his name, sang and danced before him, treated him like a king. It should not have ended like this.
And yet, I recall a song, it comes persistently to mind, sung often in the synagogue. It speaks of one forsaken by God in his time of need, scorned by many. He belonged to God from before he was born, then suffered at the hands of many. They sung of bones poured out like water, a heart of melted wax, that is how my boy would have felt. They sung of hands and feet pierced like his and enemies gloating over him. They sang of lots being cast for clothing and of God’s ultimate victory. They sung of remembering him for ever, not just now but families of every nation, even those presently unborn. For he has done it.
Is this my son’s song? Were the words written for him?
He spoke of his death often, he tried to warn me that he would die. But not like this, not before my own time has come. No mother should bury her child, it goes against what is natural and right. Though, he showed no fear, he knew what his end would be. And he told me there was more.
As I turn now to sleep, I wonder at his words. Will he truly return somehow and will I know? Has he finished what he was sent to do?”

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        If Mary was a young teenager when she learned she was pregnant (which would fit with the age girl’s became betrothed in those days) then when Jesus died aged thirty-three, she would have been about forty-seven. How does a woman of that age cope with the things she was forced to witness and how much would she have understood at the time?
        I am about her age, I have sons, contemplating their dying is too horrible for words. I am sure she loved her boy as much as we love ours.

           Crucifixion was a ghastly way to die. We learn in the Bible that Jesus, who never sinned, who never did anything wrong, died to save the world. What does that mean? You can learn more at:https://anneethompson.com/how-to/378-2/

           However, many people were crucified, some probably unjustly accused. So is it the death that was important or was it that God became separate? I think that this is the key issue here, the part of Jesus that was God left him. That was more terrible than crucifixion. That is what each of us deserves and what we do not have to suffer if we choose to come to God. If we want to know God, we can, even if that means changing our minds. You may not believe in God but God believes in you.

       The song which Mary recalled in the story was Psalm 22. It has some striking similarities to the account of Jesus’ crucifixion. It was written about one thousand years before the event. (wow)
       It begins: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”
       It finishes: “…..future generations will be told about the Lord. They will proclaim his righteousness to a people yet unborn- for he has done it.”

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 More stories, articles and poems at: http://www.anneethompson.com

Death

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Contemplating Death

   Below is a story about death. In England, we rarely talk about death. It would perhaps be considered bad manners. Even when we know someone has lost a close friend or relative, we are uncomfortable confronting it and avoid using words such as “dead’ or “died”. We do not often see dead bodies and when we do they have usually been ‘modified’ by the undertaker and made up to look as if they are merely asleep. I am not sure this is terribly helpful.

I don’t really want to discuss the death of someone else. In my experience, the death of someone we love is like a physical wound which leaves a scar. It never really gets better. I have never found the belief that they are somewhere better, free from pain and troubles, to be particularly comforting. Maybe I am just way too selfish, but basically I just want them back with me.

However, I do think that considering ones own death is a worthwhile pursuit. Lets face it, we all have a ‘Use By’ date, even though we try to avoid thinking about it.

Death is not an unexpected accident, we are all designed to die, it is what was intended when you were created. You are not just a lump of flesh, there is more to you than that. So consider for a moment what that means.

I did not ever think about death until my Dad died. He died on a bank holiday (note to self: avoid dying on a bank holiday, everything shuts and relatives have no one to ask for help.) His body therefore remained in his bedroom for most of the day and I found myself alone with it for a while. I had previously said that I did not want to see his body, preferring to remember him alive. However, in the event, I had no choice as the body was there and we needed to sort out things in the room.

It taught me something important. Dad was not there. I was not in a room with a dead parent, I was in an empty room with a discarded body. That was an entirely different thing and made the whole burial bit much easier because it was not ‘Dad’ going in the ground, it was just his body.

I was forced to confront death again when I found I had a brain tumour. I was advised that a feature of that particular cyst was ‘sudden instant death’ but that removing it involved some brain damage and possibly would be fatal, so they would just monitor it unless it looked to be obviously dangerous. This was something of a shock. I was not planning on dying until much older. It did though make me think about what death meant and I believe it made me live better. Knowing that you may well die tomorrow really makes you live today carefully. It also helps you to keep things in perspective. If someone was rude to me it mattered less – I might be dead the next day, that was bigger! It also made me really sort out what I believed.

I did not want to die (I still don’t actually) but what was I worried about? What did I actually believe about God and eternal life? This became especially urgent in 2014, when the cyst changed and I began to develop hydrocephalus and be dangerously ill. The surgeon decided he needed to operate within a few days. He was very open about the fact that there was a risk of dying during the operation (even though he assured me the odds were in my favour!) I now had to be sure that what I claimed to believe about God was true. It is one thing to trust that God will lead you through life, it is another to trust that he will look after your children for you should you die. Could I trust that God loved my family even more than I did? That if I weren’t there he would take care of them?

I did not actually have any choice about having the operation – I would probably not have survived without it, so these were issues that I could not ignore. There was also no point in fooling myself. If what I believed about God was not true, now was the time to face it. I did not want a ‘sop’ that wasn’t real, pretending would be worse than pointless.

I know that friends and family were praying for me and actually, the amount of prayer was quite overwhelming. When I was actually in hospital, I felt God’s presence like never before. I felt I could almost have reached out and touched him, it was a physical presence, like being surrounded in warm cotton wool. I cannot now, after the event, talk about the operation without talking about God. (Much to the surprise of my hairdresser, postman, lady at the bus stop…….)

I did not though, receive any kind of ‘message’ or assurance that I would not die during the operation. I think God knew that I needed to be prepared, whatever the outcome. I had to trust him completely, even if that involved dying before I wanted to. It was still scary (I cannot describe how I felt as I walked from the ward to the operating room, but it was not something I want to repeat) but it also was not full of despair. It was weirdly peaceful in a strong way.

My point is this. You may not believe in God, that is your absolute right. But you definitely ought to sort out what you DO believe and you need to be sure that when you die it is right. Even people who claim to be christians, seem to avoid talking about death. I was interested that even when people knew I was having the operation, only two people actually mentioned death (apart from the doctors, who kept asking me to sign consent forms and disclaimers!)

Why are we so uncomfortable mentioning something which is inevitable? In the Bible, Jesus often spoke about death, even when people really wanted him to talk about other things. When one man came to be healed, Jesus first forgave his sin. Why? I think because that was the most important thing. If the story had ended there, he still would have done what was best for the man. We read that he only then continued to physically heal the man because that helped the people who were watching. It was not crucial for the man himself. (You can read this story in the Bible, Matthew chapter 9.)

The quote I love most from C S Lewis is the one that says,

“You do not have a soul. You are a soul, you have a body.”

If that is true, if we are more than a bundle of flesh, then we cannot be what we are intended to be unless we die.

I have watched many ducklings hatch. They can never become a proper bird and swim away unless they first struggle out of that egg. That is what I believe about death. It is not terrifying (other than that the unknown is always a bit frightening), it is what needs to happen for us to become who we are intended to become.

I survived this operation but I will die one day. So will you. What is it about our own death which scares us? In the Bible, the only times that ‘after death’ is mentioned, it sounds more like a party than a church service! Actually, when things are going badly or we are depressed, it can be a comfort to remember that we are temporary, that this life is not intended to be the only existence that we will know.

I do believe absolutely that our time of dying is a matter for God. It is too big a decision for us. (I think this applies to prolonging life indefinitely as well as ending it prematurely. We should not mess around with some things. I don’t think humans should have to carry the weight of those decisions.)

So, I challenge you to think about your own death. Not in a morbid, ‘Goth’ manner. But openly and honestly. What worries you about it and can this be resolved before it is too late? I wrote the story about Death, based on my own imagination, my understanding of what the Bible implies and seeing my Dad’s body. I wrote it because I don’t think dying has to be horrible. As I said, I do not want to die, not today anyway, but I do believe that when I do it will not be because of some cosmic mistake. We do not know what comes next but we can prepare for it.

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Death

We all died together. That in itself is not especially surprising, given the number of families that will only travel abroad together. The very opposite of the royal family, who preserve their heirs by travelling separately. However, the manner of death is unimportant, it is the death itself which may be of interest. It began with the light.

An enticing, beckoning, light which could not be ignored. I have heard surgeons discuss the image of a light that the brain manufactures as it begins to shut down. This was not a simulation or physical aberration, this was real. I was unable to resist but nor did I want to and I left my body without a thought, hastening towards the light. Pause a moment.

Think about the significance of that. My body, which I had fretted over, spent money colouring my hair, spent time applying make up and agonising over for decades and I left it without a second thought. I didn’t need it anymore you see. Like a much loved bike when you learn to drive, or your childhood bedroom abandoned on the day you marry – no longer necessary, no longer needed. I discarded it as easily as I shed my pyjamas at the start of a day.

I could not ignore the light you see. Imagine a shaft of late autumn sunlight that takes you by surprise so you lift your face and for a moment, all you can feel is the gentle warmth and through your closed eyelids you see brightness imprinted on your retina. A light that just for a moment obliterates all other thoughts and makes you smile, glad to just exist. That is something like the light that called me forwards.

As I drew closer there were sounds too. At first I couldn’t discern if it was one or many, merging and tangling, like the drops in a waterfall that unite to create a roar. It was a good sound, I knew that, even though I would be incapable of describing it. The sound and the light both drew me, I wanted to become part of them, be suffused in them.

I knew the others were with me, but in an undefined, unimportant way. Think of when you are engrossed in a film in the cinema, you know who is sitting next to you but are only vaguely aware of them. All attention is focused forward, you are fully absorbed in the film and any interruptions from other people is unwanted, irritating even. I don’t think I even glanced at them, I was just aware that they were alongside me, travelling with me towards the light.

I don’t know when I became aware that the light was God. Maybe I had known from the beginning. I was aware that I was slowing though, the feeling of longing also mingling with awe, fear even. How could anyone approach with anything other than trepidation?

I began to become aware of ‘me’ again. Not the physical, discarded form, but the things I had done, the unworthiness of my life and my advance became ever slower, more reticent. Could I, dare I approach? Everything within me longed to continue, to join that light and the sound. I knew it would complete me. But now there was also a touch of fear, a stone of doubt that cast sharp pricks of worry. Would I be rejected? Was it possible that I might be finally and everlastingly accepted when I had so often lived foolishly, made selfish choices that hurt people and become so absorbed in my own wants and desires that I had frequently ignored God’s voice, not even thinking of looking to him for guidance. The numerous times I had judged God by the irritating people who attended church, the unwillingness to separate God and man’s flawed religions. The moments when I had demanded the right to ‘be happy’.

Then I realised that he was with me. Indistinct, but very present. I could not see him yet I knew him and knew he had been with me for some time. Years even, certainly before I had died. I could not describe his appearance, though I knew he had been wounded, destroyed even and somehow recovered. And I knew he was kind, compassion flowed from him, reassuring me.

There were voices now, whispering, hissing, accusing,urging me to stop.

“You are not good enough. We all know what you did. We can see what you used to think,feel, want. Selfish…..thoughtless……greedy…….”

The voices combined and swelled, filling me with dread. They were true. All that they said was true. Yet still I progressed. Slower now, still unsure, but urged forward by him at my side. As I approached the light I began to understand.

Only the pure could join the light and I was not good enough. I never had been. But he by my side, who had joined me on my journey, was good enough for both of us.

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If you enjoyed this, you might like ‘Goodbye’ at https://anneethompson.com/poems/bereavement/goodbye/

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The Safe Place

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The Safe Place.
An Animal Garden Story

The Safe Place

by Anne E Thompson

It was very cold. All night, soft snowflakes had fallen and now the garden was white and silent. The dogs were very happy. They had leaped around in the snow, eating great mouthfuls of it and had left big muddy footprints across the lawn. The cats were cross. They looked at the beautiful white snow and decided it was much too cold to go outside. They had found somewhere warm and curled up to sleep. The chickens stayed in the coop, they were safe in there.

Annie was worried about the ducks. The pond had frozen and the water was hard, so Mr Fox could walk across it. He could walk to the island and catch ducks there. He could walk across the frozen water and into the nesting box and could catch ducks there. He could even catch ducks on the actual water, where they stood in an unhappy huddle, wanting to be able to swim.

Annie went to the pond. She took the dogs and her family. They moved the ducks into the big cage. The ducks would be safe in the cage.

Every day, Annie went up to the big cage. The ducks needed clean water. They couldn’t swim in the pond or drink the water. Every day Annie carried big bowls of water into the cage. Some of the little call ducks jumped into it and splashed and swam. The big ducks dipped their heads into it and had a wash and a drink.

The ducks couldn’t sleep in the nesting box. They couldn’t poop in the pond. Every day Annie took away the dirty hay and cleaned up the duck poop. Then she gave them clean hay to sleep on.

The ducks needed food. They couldn’t catch insects in the pond or eat the plants on the bank. Every day Annie took them duck food and corn to eat.

When Annie went to the pond, she saw fox footprints. They went round and round the cage. They went round and round the pond. They went round and round the island. But the ducks were safe. The ducks lived in the cage for a long time. They were sad. They wanted to play on the pond. They wanted to eat grass. They wanted to swim. But they were safe.

After lots and lots of days, the sun started to shine. The weather grew warmer. The ice began to melt. Mr Fox couldn’t walk onto the pond when the ice had gone and he didn’t like to swim. When all the ice had melted and the pond had turned back into water, Annie opened the cage door. Out flew the call ducks. They landed ‘splash!’ onto the pond. Out waddled the fat white Aylesbury ducks. They stepped carefully into the pond. Out ran little wood duck, she jumped straight into the pond. The ducks were all very happy. Now they could play and swim and find food, and they were all safe.

In some countries in the world, people are not safe in the places where they live. If there is lots of fighting in their country, sometimes they have to leave their homes and go to a safe place. This is called a refugee camp. The people need food. They need somewhere to sleep. They need clean water. They need toilets. Sometimes they need other people to help them. People in our country can give money to a charity to help people who have had to leave their homes. Tearfund is a charity that helps people. Ask someone to help you find tearfund.org on the computer and you can see pictures of some of the people they help.

Please share this.

Anne E. Thompson

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