Tuesday, 16 September 2014

When people clustered around, wondering who Jesus was, I did not think I was among them.

They are the others, those doubters.

Yet like so much of life, it is crowded on the moral high-ground and if I'm honest the question comes back at time.

Is He or isn't He?

It is the question for every hour. For every troubled time. And funny, but it occurs to me that the question also becomes the answer. The answer I prod myself with when my mind wanders to worry.

In forgiveness, can you do it? Well, is He forgiveness or isn't He?

In love, are you consistent? Well, is He lover or isn't He?

In courage, do my knees buckle? Well Olivia, is He Lord or isn't He?

Because if He is Jesus the Messiah, then He is Jesus the King and He alone can strengthen and comfort and love and encourage.

Does it feel like His arms are really just rushing wind as you fall? I will not argue...but I can ask.

Is He or isn't He the one who can catch you?


Then wait awhile. He is there.


Sunday, 7 September 2014

Fresh Air

I have to admit, I'm not a natural outdoorswoman. I am too frightened of snakes, probably.

But sometimes, Millie undertakes to teach me the skill of observance in nature. She practices the Charlotte Mason approach on me, as the closest thing to a toddler she has at hand.

At first (and still) I mostly excel at noticing trash. I think my voice shrilling through the woods is also a general deterrent to wildlife. However, I am getting better and holding a camera helps.
And just to be sure my new found skills stick, we plan to make the most of these trails, this Fall.
You should come with us, sometime!
I almost impaled myself trying to beat the timer.



Wednesday, 3 September 2014

Twenty Three Going on Two

Whenever I babysit, I'm struck by it at least once. And so during the meltdown or the pouting, I usually sit down and consider.

Is this what I look like to God? I ask myself, and in the stiff legs and tears before me,  I see yes.

Stubborn and sometimes angry. Our instinct is to fight against the hand that tells us no more candy. Or the love that says, this is best. I know.

I think about it too, when we start to sing on Sunday morning. Sometimes it's hard to hear the piano over lusty two year old lungs. We nod and smile and love it, and then suppose that our praise sounds more lovely to a Heavenly ear.

But surely our praise seems much like the babies, with every clue and no clue, taking ourselves quite seriously.

A friend recounted a worship service she attended at the old folk's home the other day. It was apparently complete with camp meeting hymns and the keyboard player wore a wig.

God most definitely has a sense of humour, we concluded. And who knows that our own worship is sometimes not as scattered, funny, hopeful, and given much grace before the throne of its beginning.

He loves us and I sometimes forget that this love is not because I'm managing to keep it together. He is the Father who watches me frown, arms crossed and leads me through repentance and making it right.

He is the Father who hears my voice in song, and smiles because I have so much to learn.

He is the Father...And the lines have fallen in pleasant places indeed, for I am his little child.