Thursday, 2 March 2017
Sunday, 26 February 2017
Another 'going with God' thought
If we travel on God's train,
we will always be in (God's) good time.
we will always be in (God's) good time.
Saturday, 25 February 2017
About being seriously ill in hospital
This post was written on 25.2.17 and has lain in draft ever since. I've read it through and think it's more or less ok to post, so better late than never! Hopefully, it might be food for thought for others who find themselves in similar situations.
In the early hours of Sunday, 5th Feb, 2017, having had an excruciating pain under my right ribs, a 111 call and the lovely lady's call to paramedics brought me to hospital where I was found to have 'severe pneumonia', sepsis and jaundice and, what I would now call a high level of 'mental and emotional strain'.
On Wednesday afternoon, 15th Feb, I came home having had 11 days of the most amazing treatment and care from the (approximately 12) doctors, nurses and caring staff of the Royal Stoke hospital. Rather like the 'tombstone' joke (The inscription reads, "I told you I was ill), I actually was ill. It has taught me a great lesson.
On the very first day, as I lay in A and E, which was an absolutely marvellous experience for me, the so-called infamous 'trolleys' being, surprise, surprise, nothing like Tesco trolleys, but actually, perfectly comfortable padded black trolley/beds; the lovely junior doctor, Tiffany, rushing about finding test results and the like, coming back with the senior Dr, putting me in the picture, I knew that everything that had caused me this stress had to go.
In as far as it lay in my power to do so, I decided that I would never allow anything to put my health in such jeopardy again. The 'anythings' were mostly voluntary 'good works' but when body, mind, emotions and God finally get through, they tell us when enough is enough and that there comes a time when we have to sort out our priorities, and that is what I did; all that has gone.
As I lay there, thinking these thoughts, it came to me that what I've always wanted to do is write and that's what I'm now free to do. I haven't been up to it until today but here I am now, writing in the daytime and not, as usual, when I've had to snatch a late half-hour; so hopefully, this is the beginning of the rest of my life!! I wrote some things in hospital and when the energy returns, I'll try to write them as posts.
PS The effort to do as I hoped above is still a work in progress because life does get in the way of our best intentions and resolutions all the time but at least we can all keep trying.
In the early hours of Sunday, 5th Feb, 2017, having had an excruciating pain under my right ribs, a 111 call and the lovely lady's call to paramedics brought me to hospital where I was found to have 'severe pneumonia', sepsis and jaundice and, what I would now call a high level of 'mental and emotional strain'.
On Wednesday afternoon, 15th Feb, I came home having had 11 days of the most amazing treatment and care from the (approximately 12) doctors, nurses and caring staff of the Royal Stoke hospital. Rather like the 'tombstone' joke (The inscription reads, "I told you I was ill), I actually was ill. It has taught me a great lesson.
On the very first day, as I lay in A and E, which was an absolutely marvellous experience for me, the so-called infamous 'trolleys' being, surprise, surprise, nothing like Tesco trolleys, but actually, perfectly comfortable padded black trolley/beds; the lovely junior doctor, Tiffany, rushing about finding test results and the like, coming back with the senior Dr, putting me in the picture, I knew that everything that had caused me this stress had to go.
In as far as it lay in my power to do so, I decided that I would never allow anything to put my health in such jeopardy again. The 'anythings' were mostly voluntary 'good works' but when body, mind, emotions and God finally get through, they tell us when enough is enough and that there comes a time when we have to sort out our priorities, and that is what I did; all that has gone.
As I lay there, thinking these thoughts, it came to me that what I've always wanted to do is write and that's what I'm now free to do. I haven't been up to it until today but here I am now, writing in the daytime and not, as usual, when I've had to snatch a late half-hour; so hopefully, this is the beginning of the rest of my life!! I wrote some things in hospital and when the energy returns, I'll try to write them as posts.
PS The effort to do as I hoped above is still a work in progress because life does get in the way of our best intentions and resolutions all the time but at least we can all keep trying.
Tuesday, 17 January 2017
An invitation from Jesus to you
"Behold, I stand at the (your) door and knock:
if anyone (you) hears (hear) my voice and opens his (open your) door to me,
I will enter in and dine with him (you),
and he (you) with me. (Revelation 3:20)
This invitation is deeply connected with the vivid painting by Holman Hunt, called, "The Light of the World" which depicts Jesus knocking on a door. The key point to notice is the lack of a handle on the outside. The meaning is that Jesus does not impose himself on us. He knocks. If we wish him to enter, we have to 'open the door to him' from the inside.
These are my recent reflections.
Jesus doesn't say he will come in and 'visit' us! He says he will dine with us. He brings no food with him. He will share our food, however poor or rich it may be. He will take us as he finds us. He will share our lives just as they are. We don't have to put on a show for him or be anything other than who we really are. In fact, it wouldn't work if we received him in any other way.
All he brings is a lamp - and himself. If we allow him to enter, that lamp will illuminate our lives forever. The person holding the lamp will always be at our side, always sharing our meals, always picking us up when we fall, always sending his spirit to comfort and console us, his angels to guard and guide us, always leading us towards his and our loving Father in heaven.
Why wouldn't we open that door if we really knew this truth.
if anyone (you) hears (hear) my voice and opens his (open your) door to me,
I will enter in and dine with him (you),
and he (you) with me. (Revelation 3:20)
This invitation is deeply connected with the vivid painting by Holman Hunt, called, "The Light of the World" which depicts Jesus knocking on a door. The key point to notice is the lack of a handle on the outside. The meaning is that Jesus does not impose himself on us. He knocks. If we wish him to enter, we have to 'open the door to him' from the inside.
These are my recent reflections.
Jesus doesn't say he will come in and 'visit' us! He says he will dine with us. He brings no food with him. He will share our food, however poor or rich it may be. He will take us as he finds us. He will share our lives just as they are. We don't have to put on a show for him or be anything other than who we really are. In fact, it wouldn't work if we received him in any other way.
All he brings is a lamp - and himself. If we allow him to enter, that lamp will illuminate our lives forever. The person holding the lamp will always be at our side, always sharing our meals, always picking us up when we fall, always sending his spirit to comfort and console us, his angels to guard and guide us, always leading us towards his and our loving Father in heaven.
Why wouldn't we open that door if we really knew this truth.
Sunday, 27 November 2016
About illness and prayer and losing the fear of death
This is a postscript on the piece I have recently published on my 'all sorts' site about my successful treatment for cancer.
The reason why I can never be smug about my decision not to accept the surgery offered to me, which was, statistically speaking, the correct and sensible answer to my condition, is that I know that the procedure that I had instead could so easily not have been successful.
The surgeon, a lovely man and a committed Christian, was clear in explaining that the operation had not gone well, and why, and what could be the result, and I could see what he meant. This is what caused my long dark nights of the soul.
I believe, with complete certainty, that it was the prayers of my family and friends and my total trust that God knew that I needed to be completely fit to care for husband and son-at-home and to keep up with our ever-expanding and lovely family that brought me through the 'valley of the shadow of death'.
I trusted that my choice would enable me to continue to visit and spend time with very precious friends and to carry on with our church commitments, plus my greatest delight which is hymn-singing with the children at our local primary school and it has.
I was told that there was a 30% chance that the cancer could spread. The fact that, between the operation in mid-July and the test in early September, it had completely disappeared was, as far as I'm concerned, a miracle of God's love and healing. Nothing will ever shake that belief.
On the evening I came back from Good Hope Hospital, I lay in bed looking at the July sun setting in the sky and, at some time during that evening, this image came unbidden into my mind. I was sitting on a small raft in the middle of a gentle river. The raft was made of wood and was strong and secure.
Along the banks of the river were beautiful flowers and trees. I saw that the river was a river of love and that the raft was God's love and I was being carried from this life to the next in one continuous, calm and peaceful journey. From that time on, I have had no fear of dying whatsoever.
Thanks be to God, to the love and prayers of family and friends, and for love itself which is life in all its fullness.
The reason why I can never be smug about my decision not to accept the surgery offered to me, which was, statistically speaking, the correct and sensible answer to my condition, is that I know that the procedure that I had instead could so easily not have been successful.
The surgeon, a lovely man and a committed Christian, was clear in explaining that the operation had not gone well, and why, and what could be the result, and I could see what he meant. This is what caused my long dark nights of the soul.
I believe, with complete certainty, that it was the prayers of my family and friends and my total trust that God knew that I needed to be completely fit to care for husband and son-at-home and to keep up with our ever-expanding and lovely family that brought me through the 'valley of the shadow of death'.
I trusted that my choice would enable me to continue to visit and spend time with very precious friends and to carry on with our church commitments, plus my greatest delight which is hymn-singing with the children at our local primary school and it has.
I was told that there was a 30% chance that the cancer could spread. The fact that, between the operation in mid-July and the test in early September, it had completely disappeared was, as far as I'm concerned, a miracle of God's love and healing. Nothing will ever shake that belief.
On the evening I came back from Good Hope Hospital, I lay in bed looking at the July sun setting in the sky and, at some time during that evening, this image came unbidden into my mind. I was sitting on a small raft in the middle of a gentle river. The raft was made of wood and was strong and secure.
Along the banks of the river were beautiful flowers and trees. I saw that the river was a river of love and that the raft was God's love and I was being carried from this life to the next in one continuous, calm and peaceful journey. From that time on, I have had no fear of dying whatsoever.
Thanks be to God, to the love and prayers of family and friends, and for love itself which is life in all its fullness.
Saturday, 12 November 2016
A poem for the time when I am no longer here
In Love's Embrace
If you should hear that I have died
do not be sad, be glad for me.
Though love is real and joys abound,
life's pain is clear, for all to see.
The many tears that I have cried,
for grief untold and sorrows seen,
for early dawn's anxiety;
for what is and what might have been,
will fade away in love's embrace
when we behold the wondrous place
where all shall dwell in God alone,
our final and eternal home.
This is certainly not the greatest poem ever and some of the lines are not very good, no matter how I search for better expressions and rhythms. However, others of the lines have been echoing in my head for weeks and will not let go so this is the best I have come up with so far.
Also, it seemed appropriate to post them in November and particularly on the weekend of remembrance, here and maybe in other places around the world but especially in France, on the anniversary of the atrocity which took place in Paris a year ago today.
It might even be something that others might have liked to say to their loved ones who are left behind. I can only hope that in some circumstances, it might, perhaps, bring some sort of comfort and, maybe, some understanding.
If you should hear that I have died
do not be sad, be glad for me.
Though love is real and joys abound,
life's pain is clear, for all to see.
The many tears that I have cried,
for grief untold and sorrows seen,
for early dawn's anxiety;
for what is and what might have been,
will fade away in love's embrace
when we behold the wondrous place
where all shall dwell in God alone,
our final and eternal home.
This is certainly not the greatest poem ever and some of the lines are not very good, no matter how I search for better expressions and rhythms. However, others of the lines have been echoing in my head for weeks and will not let go so this is the best I have come up with so far.
Also, it seemed appropriate to post them in November and particularly on the weekend of remembrance, here and maybe in other places around the world but especially in France, on the anniversary of the atrocity which took place in Paris a year ago today.
It might even be something that others might have liked to say to their loved ones who are left behind. I can only hope that in some circumstances, it might, perhaps, bring some sort of comfort and, maybe, some understanding.
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