Theology

M: Are there dogs in heaven?

Me: I don't know. God made dogs and everything else and called them 'good', so-

M: The Bible doesn't actually say though.

Me: No, it doesn't. But it doesn't say there won't be animals in heaven either. And we're told the Earth will be made like new again one day. Put back to the way it should be.

M: I think there SHOULD be dogs in heaven. Especially police dogs that have died while they were working.

Currency Exchange (part 2)

We were recently given a €500 note from a customer during a conference in Ireland. I didn't know such notes existed until I was holding one in my hand. Like notes of any currency that aren't in pounds sterling, I have a sense of unreality when handling them and even after mentally converting them into something I use and understand (£445 in this case #thankyoubrexit), they still feel strange and toy-like.

Anyway. We gave the customer his change and I emailed his receipt an hour or so later. By the end of the 3 day event, a small stash of €50's and €20's had joined the €500 note in a plastic wallet along with 3 £20 pound notes which we shouldn't technically have accepted, but arrived via our lovely client who pays us to work for her and who really needed her remaining Euros for beer.

Back in the UK a few days later I go into town with Manchild to bank the euros. We have sterling and euro accounts with a well known high street bank who shall remain nameless. The woman behind the glass screen is very pleasant. Yes of course you can pay euros into your euro account. I shall take them for you now.

It takes ages. Several people get served at the till next to us and leave. An alarm of some description goes off twice behind the glass screen. It's bearable for us, but deafening for the cashiers, judging by their faces. Then there's another problem with the magnetic lock on the bank's front door - it activates and locks the customers inside while a queue forms outside of people who can't get in. 'Are we hostages?' asks someone. No, thankfully not. The bank is not under seige. The branch manager appears and the alarm stops for the second time as the door is released. Great.

The branch manager then retreats through a locked door and reappears behind my cashier. Apparently my request requires her assistance. Another alarm sounds. The cashiers can't find the source and it's on OUR side of the glass this time, not theirs. I eventually walk up to a self deposit hatch and shut the lid which had been left slightly ajar by the last user. The alarm stops. Hurray! Says everyone in the queue. Do I want a job here? smiles the cashier. No, I just want you to bank my Euros so I can leave and get on with my day I think. Manchild wants a chip and pin card account and we were planning to make enquiries about it here. Do you trust these people to look after your money? I whisper. Absolutely not. He replies. They don't have control over their own front door.

OK. Now there's definitely a problem. The bank cannot accept my €500 note. It is not a forgery to their knowledge. There's nothing wrong with the note itself, but there's no button on their computer that they can click on to book it in and register it as received. Clicking the €100 button 5 times isn't allowed. They have to account for each individual note they take receipt of and as there's no button for my €500 note, they can't do anything with it. Sorry about that. They suggest another bank.

Irritating. I can't argue because if the branch manager doesn't know what's happened to the €500 button and accidentally made hostages of half a dozen people when no one had a firearm then I'm not sure shouting at anyone here will help. I grumpily thank the cashier after she checks there's nothing else she can help me with today, then leave while the door still opens.

I try an alternative bank which is equally unable to help, especially since I'm not even a customer of theirs. The Post Office won't exchange the note because they would be unable to sell it on. They suggest a travel agent who is likewise unable to take it as they would also struggle to sell it on. The bloke there is confused that our own bank can't help especially when we've gone to the trouble of opening a separate euro account to make these kinds of transactions possible. I am also confused and ring the Irish venue who hosted our meeting to ask if they routinely deal in €500 notes (just in case Google is lying) - and they do. This is reassuring. Then I ring the business helpline of the bank who shall remain nameless and am informed it's a national policy NOT to accept €500 notes. Ever. Even if you have a Euro account. No, I don't know why that is or when we made that decision. Sorry.

Aaaarghhhhh. What sort of stupid system is that? This explains the missing €500 button though. Some software engineer has been paid to disable it. Maybe they should make this clear to customers, I suggest to the helpline person? And maybe the bank staff who are happy to offer the service and bill us every month for using it should be aware of its limitations?

Anyway. We reverse the problem by making it not ours. We we send the note back to the customer and debit his account and (here's the clever bit) offset the change we have already given him at the registration desk against his flight expense which pretty much matches his claim, bar an additional €4 which is now my fee for fannying around all morning. Result.

But still annoying. And kind of fascinating. Having a note of currency that you are unable to pay into a bank account of that same currency kind of emphasizes that there's nothing intrinsically valuable about it in the first place. The only thing that makes money have value is that a bunch of people all got together and decided it did. Then it's a self fulfilling prophecy - in both directions. So if people get together and collectively decide that a particular note is no longer bankable, then so be it. (Although they could have told the rest of us).

Don’t hoard treasure down here where it gets eaten by moths and corroded by rust or worse! - stolen by burglars. Stockpile treasure in heaven, where it’s safe from moth and rust and burglars. It’s obvious, isn’t it? The place where your treasure is, is the place you will most want to be, and end up being. (Mat 6:19-21)

Yayyy! Go Jesus. Except stockpiling treasure in heaven is a rather abstract thing. Even for Christians who claim to believe in and live by this stuff. If we can't see the immediate short term effects of investing in a particular cause, then it's harder for us to get excited by it. The principle works for other things though, so the logic should be transferrable. We understand the value of an athlete avoiding pizza before a competition or putting up with morning sickness in order to grow a baby. We just need to think a bit longer term than a 25 year mortgage or (insert own example of longer term thinking here).

Don’t store up treasure for yourself in €500 notes because these ultimately can't be sold on. Didn't I mention it while I was there? All earthly kingdoms will crumble eventually so the Euro will inevitably follow the Roman Denarius, the Sudanese Dinar and the Franc into oblivion. Sorry about that. However my currency's performing really well so invest in that instead. Just take whatever money, time or skills you have and use them for things that straddle this world AND the next one. Grab those opportunities- they're everywhere if you look properly. And I don't need much to make it happen because my interest rates will blow your mind. I can take the smallest act of kindness or courage and multiply it beyond anything you thought possible because your thinking is small and I am big. I take your little trinkets of paper and metal or 1s and 0s on a computer screen and expand my kingdom one life at a time when you faithfully give to a cause bigger than your own immediate comfort. You make heaven touch earth in a million tiny ways when you choose to forgive someone who hurt you, hug your gobby teenager, write to your MP or buy a Big Issue. Tell your mates. My treasure holds its value indefinitely and I'm always looking out for new investors. 

Time management

All that is not eternal is eternally out of date. (CS Lewis)

This folder is the culmination of about 6 months work. Most projects we do generate a folder like this (in corporate orange - hello), divided into sections such as hotels, speakers, exhibition, programme and anything else we're asked to get involved in. As a conference approaches, the Orange Folder steadily fills up with bits of paper as information becomes available and finalised documents replace draft versions of things. By the time the meeting starts it is a complete summary of the next few days of my life and I would be totally stranded without it. We have digital versions of everything - but I need a tangible thing to hold in my hands and flick through - because it's far easier and more comforting to be able to hold the information in both hands. The Orange Folder becomes the event Bible, and must be accessible all the time.

Then the conference takes place. Large volumes of people gather in one place. A flurry of activity ensues. Then everyone goes home again. And a really weird thing happens - the Orange Folder becomes redundant.

The care and attention it has previously enjoyed is withdrawn - practically overnight. It returns home to a cupboard in the office alongside other summaries of events gone by, all waiting patiently for a day when they might be selected from the shelf and referred to once more. The Orange Folder, fresh from duty is likely confused at this sudden abandonment: Why is no one picking me up to arrange and re-arrange my contents? What happened to all the flicking through me 10 times a day to access my secrets?! Are you honestly telling me NO ONE needs to know which symposia will be held in which room, when the sponsors can run through their slides or who is still to submit a travel claim? What about how many Gala dinner meals need to be vegetarian, pescatarian, halal or under no circumstances contain peanuts?? No, no no - don't shut the cupboard door...!

But of course, no one cares now. After the dinner's over, no one needs to know what the final numbers were (which, incidentally, 10% of people won't show up for and at least one person will spontaneously develop / abandon a vegetarian lifestyle because they've just seen the alternative at another table...).

Isn't that weird? How can something go from being indispensable to recyclable in a matter of days? Time is such a fickle thing.

Or is it MORE weird that I even think about this stuff - because the alternative would involve a realm of no past or future - only the all consuming now. A fluid existence not framed by the passing of days and weeks and years, but something beyond the boundaries of experience or vocabulary or imagination. A place where the Orange Folder is always important or isn't needed at all...

What if we lived in immortality, like the wormhole prophets in DS9? Having never experienced linear existence, they need the alien concept of 'time' explained to them - and even then consider the whole thing to be unstable, unpredictable and quite frankly rather bizarre ('You mean you value your ignorance of what is to come???').

I'm with the Wormhole Prophets.
And CS Lewis.
(Who, to be fair, was plagiarising St Peter)
But until then I'm working on the contents of the next Orange Folder.

But don’t forget this one thing, dear friends: To the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years is like a day. (2 Peter 3:8)

Theology

Bedtime. We are discussing The Lord's Prayer which I was shocked to discover our children actually know (we didn't teach them - at least not the trespassey version that they recited to me in Borg-like unison tonight).

Me: What do you think this bit means, 'Let your will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven'?

J: It's like God's in charge of the Earth too, just like he's the boss of Heaven.

M: Heaven is just the same as earth you know. Except there are no toilets.
Me: Um, yeah... There are a few other differences too I think...?
M: Yes- you're not allowed to be sad or punch people. Because nobody can cry and nobody can be mean.

Me: Yep! What else might be different?

J: God will be there.
M: Of course, God will be there. But... that isn't really a difference really because he's here right now as well but in Heaven he won't have his invisibility cloak.

Arrival

I seem to be in an incredibly long tunnel. I have no idea when I got here or how. It's probably a dream then- either that or I'm an architect in Inception?

The ground is covered in a soft moss-like surface. I'm walking far quicker than I know I'm capable of and I cover loads of ground fairly quickly with hardly any effort at all - like I'm on a travelator at an airport. I can't see a source of light but the walls themselves have a dull glow about them so I can see my surroundings easily. The environment is completely alien to me but I'm not anxious. I'm not excited either. I just am.

I gradually become aware of a light up ahead. The tunnel is coming to an end. As I get closer still I see there is a mesh like material all around the exit. I brace myself for getting caught up in it, or maybe waking up. The mesh looks quite flimsy so maybe I'll be able to rip it and get through. Instead when I reach the material, I put my hands out and there's nothing there. 

I stumble out into a bright and noisy courtyard. I'm completely overwhelmed. My senses have gone from minimal stimuli to maximum in a second. There's colour, sky, sunshine, birds, music, trees and people- lots of people. Pretty much shoulder to shoulder. Jostling. Chatting. Laughing. Singing. Crying. Hugging. There's even a conga line of them snaking past. All nationalities are here. And all ages- little kids walking hand in hand with old people. Maybe even different eras are represented too- judging by what people are wearing. There are business like people, kids in school uniform, other kids in jeans and t shirts, soldiers in military gear, goths, tramps, hippies, surfers, elegant looking people in designer labels and everything in between. Some of them look like they've just stepped out of an old photograph- except they're not black and white but dressed in muted browns and greys. It's such an eclectic mix of people it's like a costume party.

The courtyard appears to be part of a city built on a hill. The walls are painted white, dazzling in the sun. There are passageways leading off it in every direction, intersecting with adjacent buildings. As I'm processing all this and trying to orientate myself, a stranger makes his way towards me, jostling a few people out the way and breaking through the conga line (shouting 'Oh- sorry, excuse me..') then when he reaches me his smile grows even wider than before and he embraces me in the biggest bear hug ever. 'You're here at last!' he exclaims, 'I can't believe it!'

I squint stupidly at him because I'm certain we don't know each other. He's wearing a stripey cotton shirt (the non iron crinkly kind), ripped jeans and a navy bandana. I study his face and will my brain to access some clue as to his identity. He's in his 30's maybe with a goatee beard. His kind dark eyes bore into mine, crinkling at the edges with his smile. He is genuinely made up to see me (or whoever he has mistaken me for). He squeezes my shoulders and chuckles to himself 'I've been waiting ages you know- AGES...'

I open my mouth to tell him he must be thinking of someone else when he suddenly grabs my hand and starts pushing past the crowds, towing me along 'Come with me- there's so many people you need to meet!' Before I can argue we're off- pushing our way through the laughing, hugging, singing, conga-ing crowds. In and out of buildings, passageways, cobbled streets and more courtyards.

I am introduced to loads of people, some of whom I know and some I don't. Each one of them seems to know the friendly stranger in the bandana though, and our progress is hampered by exchanges between him and various people who approach us. I am still totally disorientated but don't have time to ask questions- even of the people I know, as I am constantly being whisked away to meet someone else or see a fountain or statue or something else of interest.

One of the people he takes me to is John, an elderly bloke I knew as a child. When I knew him before he was blind, but now his eyes are bright, sparkly and 100% functional. He touches my face with his hand and says I look just like my voice. I want to ask him how long he's been here and who exactly is this stranger in the bandana who has mistaken me for his long lost friend, when I am tugged off once more with 'Ah there she is- come on. See you later John!' And off we go again. John waves to the back of bandana man's head and as I look back at him, he's laughing and dancing with the people on either side of him.

My tour goes on for ages. There are endless introductions and reintroductions. I loose track of who's who and how they are related to each other. I'm exhausted by the newness of it all and yet not breathless at all, even though the city streets are steep and hilly and we have been rushing around between all these different buildings.

Eventually we come to the biggest room yet. It is HUGE with a long wide table down the middle of the room, laden with food. There are big bowls of fruit of genetically modified proportions (grapes the size of satsumas, melon-sized oranges), silver covered serving dishes with delicious smelling contents and pitchers of water with yet more sliced fruit floating on the surface. No one seems to have time to stop and enjoy it though. There's too much chatting and excitement. 

We pass by the top of the table and I'm being led out to an annexe of the hall when I spot the throne. It's the most impressive looking thing ever. Elevated 2 steps above the rest of the room and about eight feet high. It's made of gold with dozens of glistening stones embellishing the sides and back. I know at once the jewels are authentic and it belongs to someone of massive importance.

'Where's the king?' I ask, trying to slow down and look at it properly.

'Huh?' Asks the bandana guy, barely slowing down and excusing us past yet another group who are in the way.

I stop dead. He's still holding my hand so rebounds back towards me. 'Where's the king?' I shout this time and point to the throne. He waves a hand at it dismissively. 'I'll sit down for a while later- I can't sit still for two minutes now you've got here!' He takes my hand and turns to go off again, but I tug his hand hard and force him to stop and look at me.

I uncurl his fingers from mine and turn his hand over. My heart lurches up to my throat, suddenly pounding wildly like I've been running up and down cobbled city streets for the past few hours and it's only just realised. I grab his other hand and examine it too. Like the first, this palm is also badly scarred. A loud sob comes from somewhere near my stomach and I crumple. 

The crying is uncontrollable. I sob against his chest in a mixture of awe and love and appreciation and snot. I'm so overwhelmed I think I might explode. Like a little child who can't command their emotions, I struggle to express them AND breathe. I cling to the bandana man digging my fingers into his arms and choking on my words 'I'm sorry... I'm sorry... I'm sorry...' 

He's silent for a while, like he knows I need to say it, then eventually disentangles himself from my grasp and holds me at arms length, staring at me with his head slightly cocked to one side. He looks happier yet (if that's possible) and maybe even slightly bemused. 'I know you're sorry. You told me before. A long time ago- remember?'  

'Yes but this time I reeeaaallly truly am!' 

I have never meant those words properly before. NEVER.

'I know. You said before. I forgave then. We moved on- yeah?' He embraces me again as my breathing slowly returns to normal. Then he pats my back furiously and yells in excitement, 'Oh there's Karen, from your student halls- 4th floor- remember her? Come on!' And he grabs my hand and we dart off together through the crowds.

Holding his hand, I laugh and run and know I am awake.

The Truth, the whole Truth and nothing but a bit too much of the Truth

We teach our kids to always tell the truth but when it comes to questions from them which require an a truthful answer from us then the rules can become rather fuzzy. This is awkward. Cause children ask lots of questions on an almost daily basis and there's no pause button to buy you some time while you think of how to respond.

In the past it seems the common adult response was often a simple conversation embargo. Stop the line of questioning as quickly as it starts and employ distraction until curiosity is abandoned and da-dah! Problem solved. No uncomfortable conversations happen, no admissions of ignorance are necessary and life goes on as before. 

As a kid I distinctly remember raising certain topics which were immediately closed for discussion. It was infuriating. So, before even embarking on puberty I determined that any child I may one day have could ask any question they wanted of me and I would answer it, as best I could and with as much information as was needed. 

This was a noble goal. But as with lots of things, the pendulum can swing too far the other way. 

As it turns out I am not always the best judge of what constitutes an age-appropriate response. Nor am I always alert to the non-verbal signs which should prompt a change in conversation. My approach has backfired on several occasions and I offer you, my non judgemental friends the examples below.

Exhibit A: Late night shopping with Eldest, aged 12. A prime bonding opportunity. Both of us are night people and no siblings are present. We are getting a mid-week food top up and some clothes for him. I employ my usual snake-up-and-down-every-aisle approach, even though we have no reason to be in half of them. This tried and trusted method ensures I don't risk missing anything I forgot to put on the list. If in fact I have made a list and remembered to bring it. We are in the £1 aisle. (ONE POUND! I love this section. Does every Tesco have one or is it just Newport?)

Me: Wow- a pound for that! (Gesturing towards a pregnancy test kit). The last time I used one of them it was 6 quid! I feel proper cheated now!
E: Why- what is it?
Me: A pregnancy test. They used to be well expensive. Maybe they still are and this one's just crap.
E: (Still unsure what we're talking about) So... What is it exactly?
Me: It's a do-it-yourself kit that a woman can do at home, you know, to see if she's pregnant or not.
E: Oh right- what do you do with it exactly?...
Me: Well, it's like this plastic stick thing and the woman wees on the end bit and if she is pregnant then a little line appears on the window. And if she isn't then it doesn't. Then she knows.
E: Oh. That's ... gross.
Me: Yeah but quite handy. You know I did a test like that when I was pregnant with all of you, well I did more than one actually- you know just to be sure and I just chucked yours in the bin when it was used but a few months later Lesley (remember Lesley? Thomas' mum?) well she told me that she'd heard that the used sticks keep for ages and the little line on the window doesn't ever disappear completely, it only fades so she kept her stick from when she was having Thomas and it didn't smell or anything and I thought 'Ooh that's cool' but it was too late for your stick obviously cause it was in the bin but I kept Jackson's and Madi's- they're in their memory boxes- but I don't have yours cause I never thought to keep it. Does that bother you?
E: (Clearly most uncomfortable with the conversation but I am too steeped in nostalgia to notice) Em- no... 
Me: Oh, that's good.
E: Cause it's disgusting.
Me: Oh sorry. It's just I want to treat you all the same and have the same little momentos for you all. I've even kept the belly button clip for you all cause babies have this plastic clip thing on their stomachs for first few days  after they're born then the stump all shrivels up and drops off and-
E: (interrupting) AND YOU NEED TO STOP TALKING NOW!...
Me: Oh sorry. Shall we go to the check out?
E: YES PLEASE!... *(Sigh)*

This was clearly awkward. 

But it's not the most inappropriate conversation I've ever had with E. That conversation happened when he was 5 years old. It's all the tooth fairy's fault. I was so busy planning my Father Christmas strategy that she swooped right in under my radar while I was focussed on him. Sneaky pixie.

Exhibit B: After many long days of wobbliness E lost his first tooth one afternoon while in school. I was duly met at the door with a shy toothless grin and his tooth carefully wrapped in some blue paper towel, sellotaped for additional security. His teacher smiled as she watched him hand it to me for safe keeping and reminded him to put it under his pillow that night for the tooth fairy. E smiled politely then as soon as we were out of earshot whispered loudly 'What was she talking about?'

In all the tooth wobbling days that had preceded this day I had never mentioned the Tooth Fairy's existence. I'd told eldest he'd get a coin in exchange for the lost tooth but never mentioned her (my decision to answer all questions truthfully also included not implanting lies in the first place). Unfortunately I neglected to factor in the influences outside the home and what to say about the Fairy when someone else did.

I brushed it off by explaining that lots of people like to play the Tooth Fairy Game which involves putting a tooth under a pillow and waking up to a coin instead- doesn't that sound fun and do you want to play it? Yes OK, he agreed- if it means getting a coin. 

But that wasn't the end of it. He became obsessed with the tooth and it's significance to me. Ordinary life continued as usual for most of the day but in the 10/15 minutes in between story and prayer time and drifting off to sleep it dominated his thoughts and he kept calling me back into his room again and again as he thought of yet more questions about the tooth, or questions about the answers I had given him the night before to questions about the tooth. It was exhausting. (The truth often is).

Post tooth loss, night 4, Bedtime
E: So... You'll keep my tooth. In my special box. With all my baby things.
Me: Yeah that's right.
E: Forever. Just to keep and look at.
Me: Yep that's right. Night night...
E: Why is that again?
Me: Well, one day you'll be all big and grown up and we'll look back at your tiny baby teeth and think how much you've grown. Night babe...
E: I still don't get why mummies and daddies want to keep the teeth that fall out.
Me: Well it just helps them remember how small their boys and girls used to be and it's good to think about that when they're all grown up and big and strong.
E: And where is the box where you're keeping my tooth?
Me: In my cupboard for now, but I guess one day you'll want to keep it yourself. (Stop it)
E: Really I can have it?
Me: Yes- It's your box after all. (STOP it)
E: Where will I keep it?
Me: Well I don't know. Some where in your own house I suppose.
(I said STOP it!)
Because one day you'll take all your things and leave this house
(No! Quick- use the lie! What's that one about teeth... and children... and pillows??) 
...and move into a house of your own so you can take your box with you then. (Lie dammit- LIE! Tell him about the pillows!)
E: (Puzzlement giving way to anxiety) But I want to stay here with you and Daddy! For always!
Me: Cool- no problem babe. You can do that if you want to.
E: But mummies and daddies WANT their little boys and girls to get big and move away?
Me: Well, yes. Eventually. 
(Oh crap. Where's the Comm+Z for this conversation?)
E: But why?
Me: Because... that's... just... what happens babe.
(Comm+Z! Comm+Z! Comm+Z!)
E: (Begins to cry) But... I don't want to be big... I just like being... your little boy... (And there you go! Well done The Truth! Now why don't you sob alongside him and screw him up even more!)

It takes everything in me not to cry. I've already given him too much of my grown up baggage. I hug and comfort him. We say another prayer about monkey and his best friend Izzy. He's soon all dozy and calm. He falls asleep quickly after that and the next night he doesn't mention the tooth at all, or call me back into his room after I've put him to bed. 

But I think about it for a long time. What on Earth was I thinking? Why attempt an explanation like that? At bedtime no less!? Aaaarghhhh!

A 5 year old trying to get his head around what it will be like to leave home one day when he doesn't have the emotional reserves to cope with it is probably akin to you or me contemplating what Heaven will be like. Of course most people can cope with the abstract Yes-I'd-like-to-go-there-one-day approach, but think about it properly and pretty soon we are out of our depth because the only language we've used up until now is quite inadequate.

And this isn't about the process of getting there. That we can imagine- the practical arrangements, the balance of pain killers vs the desire for lucidity, the turning and feeding and personal care- it's unpleasant and painful alright but at least we can visualise it.

But the bit afterwards? That's just beyond what I know and can imagine. What if I don't like it and want to come back? What will my body look like? How will others recognise me and I them? How will we communicate- the Vulcan Mind meld? Where will I live? Who will I live with? What about the people I love who aren't there? Will I be upset about that or so consumed with a new reality and the face-to-faceness of Jesus that I don't care? If I don't care about the absence of certain people then what does that say about the depth of love I had for them in the first place? What about eating and sleeping and peeing? Life used to be structured around stuff like that. If we have new super improved bodies does gender as I understand it even exist anymore?? Will red still be red? I have no frame of reference for any of this stuff and it's freaking me out and I WANT TO STAY HERE INSTEAD!!

That reaction is perfectly understandable. But if I don't mature beyond it I'm the spiritual equivalent of a 40 year old recluse who lives alone, sleeps alone under the Tigger duvet of her childhood having never moved out of the home she was raised in and who doesn't even yearn for MORE. 

Since that tooth conversation day all 3 of our kids have grown and matured and done all the things expected of them at each stage along the way. We still have lots of questions in our house. Sometimes distraction is used, occasionally there are difficult conversations to be had, but most commonly we google it.

I've also become a bit less precious about the baby teeth and not all of them have made it into a memory box. Some have been laundered, fallen out at school, swept onto the floor, rinsed down the plug hole, lost in the swimming pool or even swallowed. And of the ones which have made it into a memory box I can't even be completely sure if they're in the correct one. 

Merry New Year x

Despite hailing from North of the border, I don’t like many things that are inherently associated with my homeland. Haggis. Whiskey. Rab C Nesbit. Deep-fried Mars bars. And New Year. (I’ve actually had my heritage questioned in the past because of these aversions). I also struggle to remember when Burns night is, which does not help.

The worst has to be New Year. I have always found this to be a depressing time. As a child this signifies the end of the festive season, next Christmas is positively a lifetime away and the only thing to look forward to is the possibility of snow/the school heating system packing up/any other unplanned occurrence which necessitates school closure for a few more days.


However, I can remember vividly when my New Year aversion plunged to new depths. I was 6 years old and had just worked out (all on my own) that just as the days of the week repeated themselves in an endless loop, so the months of the year also came round again in (slightly longer) endless cycles. I used this knowledge and understanding of the world and concluded that the years must likewise come round again eventually- at some point – if one waited long enough. I brightly enquired of my parents when it would be 1978 again, honestly expecting confirmation of my logic and an approximate timescale.

Instead I was told the devastating news that it would NEVER be 1978 again. Ever. 1978 was as good as dead. The year had come and gone (well- there were maybe 3 hours left) and the millions of moments, both good and bad that had collectively created it would never be repeated. Not even if we waited a  r e a l l y long time.

I was numb with shock. 1978 was almost over and would never be back again! The implications were just astounding: I would never have my 6th birthday again. I would never have Mrs Bonelli as my teacher (unless she moved up a class). I think I may have cried a little bit. I really liked Mrs Bonelli. (And it was WAY past my bedtime) The synapses whizzed across my brain as I processed this new information, and the significance it brought.

So time moves forwards.
Always.
And once you’re on the conveyor belt you stay on it until you die- getting older all the time.

This made no sense to me whatsoever. Even as I processed this, people were actively celebrating New Year and being all happy about 1978 being dead and gone forever –didn’t they know how this works for goodness sake??

Fwd 30+ years on... and I still love Love LOVE Christmas (the incarnation gets more and more wonderful and astounding to me every year. Why God, why? What a risk. What a de-motion. Seriously. But I SO love you for it…)

And I have come to accept and appreciate New Year, sharing many of them with some ace friends who tolerate all-nighters of pictionary, uno and wine. I understand why people celebrate. Family being together. Friendships. Reflection. Making plans. Looking forward to new things. Having a legitimate excuse for a bender. All that stuff.

I still don’t like it though and THINK it’s because I’m rebelling against the flow of time which is out of sync with my soul (I want heaven now!!) I could never have articulated it at 6 years old, but am sure I realised that day- I am not meant for this world.

‘If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world. If none of my earthly pleasures satisfy it, that does not prove that the universe is a fraud. Probably earthly pleasures were never meant to satisfy it, but only to arouse it, to suggest the real thing. If that is so, I must take care, on the one hand, never to despise, or be unthankful for, these earthly blessings, and on the other, never to mistake them for the something else of which they are only a copy, or echo, or mirage. I must keep alive in myself the desire for my true country, which I shall not find till after death; I must never let it get snowed under or turned aside; I must make it the main objective of life to press on to that other country and to help others do the same.’ CS Lewis

PS. ‘He that but looketh on a plate of ham and eggs to lust after it hath already committed breakfast with it in his heart.’ (LOVE it…)

MERRY NEW YEAR people x

Tadpoles

Since creating a pond in our back garden over 10 years ago, we have been visited annually by some frogs who do their thing, leave their spawn and disappear again, leaving us proud owners of a tadpole-infested pond which has gradually become devoid of fish (probably because they’ve all been eaten…or suffocated under a layer of ice in the Winter as we never remember to float a beach ball to keep an air hole open, as recommended). But I like frogs better, anyway.

However, since the end of last Summer we have had no pond, having filled it in to increase grass space and reduce the likelihood of drowning one of the kids. Accidentally anyway. But we forgot to tell the frogs, who made their annual pilgrimage back to our garden for their weekend of passion. On finding the pond replaced by a mound of gravel (and an assortment of childrens’ digger toys) they used the next best thing- a piece of crumpled up tarpaulin between the back of the hut and the boundary fence, with about 4” of rainwater in.

Who knows how long the embryonic tadpoles floated undiscovered? Only found them when the weather brightened up a bit and we decided we should do something about the sadly neglected back garden and maybe chuck the tarpaulin behind the hut as it isn’t covering any bike anymore since I gave it to a friend 3 months ago.

Such joy in our household to find out that once again the frogs had visited and once again deemed us to be suitable surrogate parents of dozens and dozens of wriggly tadpoles!

It soon became clear however, that the tarpaulin was not going to be a suitable long-term option. Leaves and gunk soon collected in the tiny artificial pond. An interesting blue-tinged oily scum could be seen when the sun came out. And after an unusually warm week, the water started to dry up, making what was left of it more concentrated. Worst of all was the SMELL. Frogs prefer stagnant rather than flowing water, but the therapeutic limit had been breeched. They were in imminent danger of suffocating in their own filth before being able to sprout legs and hop onto something better on the frog property ladder.

I swung into action. I arranged for the school to take some of them. I purchased a tank so we could keep some ourselves. Then I was given an even BETTER tank from an elderly neighbour, so gave the one I’d just bought to another friend who has a little boy who likes frogs. I even bought one of those little nets you get for goldfish. I collected tap water and kept it on the windowsill in direct sunlight for 6 days so I could gradually dilute their filthy living conditions without poisoning them with chlorine (or was it fluoride?)

Sorted.

Unfortunately there was one problem I couldn’t fix. The tadpoles don’t all want to be rescued. The first few net-fulls yield loads of them. Plus a lot of sediment, clumps of undeveloped spawn (genetic flaws?) and a dead snail. Soon, however, the remaining tadpoles begin to elude me.

By this time, my kids have lost interest completely and are off playing on the slide, the tiny amount of water I am operating in has got so murky I can’t decide where next to dip the net, I’m inadvertently inhaling tiny insects with every breath and am rapidly losing sensation from my waist down (the space between hut-to-fence is about a foot and a half and the veins in my lower legs are knackered due to poor genetics and 3 pregnancies).

After 20 minutes of this I’m seriously hacked off, simultaneously thinking ‘Right I’m off- the rest of you are too stupid to live’ and ‘Oh- there’s another one! I’ll just save ONE more…’

And suddenly I realise just how like the tadpoles we are. Evading rescue because we don’t understand what the net’s all about, what will happen to us when we are plucked from our filthy but comfortable environment, and having no IDEA of the lovely gravel-based tank (containing dechlorinated/unfluorided water and stones for resting on) and the box of flaked fish food waiting for us on the ‘other side’.

And equally how un-Godly I am in this theological scenario. I care about the fate of these creatures, yes. But I didn’t MAKE them. From scratch. Or know them by name. I don’t even now how many I’ve saved so far and how many are left in this gunge which used to be water.

I call it a day before developing economy class syndrome in my legs, prompted by the arguing and whinging from 3 kids who are wondering what’s happened to telly/tea/bath time.

We are worth more than many sparrows, many lillies of the field (Mat 6) and by implication many MANY tadpoles. God is sweeping his net backwards and forwards in a relentless effort to rescue us from suffocating in our own mess and sin.

And in actual fact, the tank is pretty cool.