Appreciate God's Blessings!

Last month continued to be a busy and emotionally/physically draining month. Of course, 'as luck would have it', I came down with a terrible cold which turned into a sinus infection during a hectic two-week seminar! I've also been finding myself getting teary at odd moments, as I'm still coming to terms with our recent miscarriage. A friend, who's been through the unspeakably painful experience of losing a newborn, lent me the book Grieving the Child I Never Knewby Kathe Wunnenberg, which I highly recommend for anyone who has experienced the loss of an unborn or newly born child.

In the meantime, I continue to thank God for the three, beautiful blessings I already have. The other day, I was looking through an old journal and I came across this poem I wrote for my eldest daughter, who's now eight years old. I'm guessing I must have written it when she was about eighteen months. Now, I'm the first to admit that I'm not the world's greatest poet, but I just wanted to share it with you in the hope that it might be of some blessing, especially to busy mums with toddlers at home:

Every day there is so much to see,
 to learn, to watch, to listen to.
A stone, a pine cone, a dog barking,
 a car alarm.
What happens if I swirl this twig in the water,
 or throw it on the ground?
Let's count the steps or the trees;
 two, three, four, six.
Why is this piece of paper stuck to my finger?
Where has Mummy hidden the biscuits?
Every day there are so many words
 to copy, to practise, to remember - 
 Nose, Chair, Food, Ice Cream.
I'm sleepy, but I fight it.
 I don't want to miss out on anything!
But here is teddy and my sheet.
 I can start again tomorrow.

Abide in Him!



 Photo credit: freedigitalphotos.net/ Maggie Smith

Learning from those who've gone before us

I've just finished reading a book by Noel Piper called 'Faithful Women and their Extraordinary God', which looks at the lives of five amazing women from different centuries and countries, with very different callings, from whom we can learn so much. I used to read loads of missionary biographies, which I always found so inspiring, and this book re-ignited a small flame inside me that had died out a while ago. I was encouraged to read about Sarah Edwards, who made such an impact when in the eyes of the world today she was 'just a stay-at-home mum'. Lilias Trotter, who gave up a potentially wonderful career as a talented and respected artist so that she could go to Africa as a missionary despite her poor health, really inspired me to look beyond earthly rewards and human wisdom and to make sure that I'm being obedient to God's call, however strange or 'second best' it may seem. Gladys Aylward's story was one of courage and determination, and I was challenged by her desire to really become one with the people she was working amongst. I'd not heard of Esther Ahn Kim, but her story reminded me that we are not called a life of ease, but rather we should be prepared to suffer as followers of Jesus. Finally, the story of Helen Roseveare really resonated with me because I recognised a lot of myself in her upbringing, spiritual struggles and focus in life. I loved the part where she loses her temper in the hospital ward and has to be gently rebuked by her African colleague that “I don’t think the Lord Jesus would have spoken like that.” I need to be reminded of that on a daily basis when I ‘lose it’ with my kids :-) In another place her local Pastor suggests that “Self is the great enemy….Helen… the trouble with you is that we can see so much Helen that we cannot see Jesus.” I was really struck by that thought. I waste so much time and energy trying to be the best ‘Catherine’ I can be, when really I ought to be seeking to cross out my ‘I’ so that ‘Christ in me’ can be more visible. With that in mind, I love words of this hymn that Noel quotes at the end of this chapter: Not I, But Christ, by A.B.Simpson Not I, but Christ, be honored, loved, exalted, Not I, but Christ, be seen, be known, be heard, Not I, but Christ, in every look and action, Not I, but Christ, in every thought and word. Not I, but Christ, to gently soothe in sorrow, Not I, but Christ, to wipe the falling tear, Not I, but Christ, to lift the weary burden, Not I, but Christ, to hush away all fear. Not I, but Christ, no idle word e’er falling, Christ, only Christ, no needless bustling sound, Christ, only Christ, no self-important bearing, Christ, only Christ, no trace of “I” be found. Not I, but Christ, my every need supplying, Not I, but Christ, my strength and health to be; Christ, only Christ, for body, soul, and spirit, Christ, only Christ, live then Thy life in me. Christ, only Christ, ere long will fill my vision; Glory excelling soon, full soon I’ll see Christ, only Christ, my every wish fulfilling — Christ, only Christ, my all in all to be.

Leisure by W.H.Davies

What is this life, if full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like stars at night.
No time to turn at Beauty; glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

Restriction by Gretchen Primack

So this is restriction: a thousand tastes
of compassion, the crisp and the dissolving,
the bowl of comfort and the bowl of bracing sour,
what is mashed and crunched, split and whole.
The zippers of wheat, the burst of a mango, the tiny
skin peeling itself from a perfect bean,
a hundred plump grains and a hundred plump
nuts and seeds, the geneses
of tall green stretches and fat green leaves.
That is what becomes my mouth
and body and my heart, and it is
my joy, and kindness, and plenty.

Love This by Gretchen Primack

If you permit

this evil, what is the good

of the good of your life?

     —Stanley Kunitz

The body floods with chemicals saying, Love this,
and she does, and births it; it is a boy
she begins to clean and nose, but he is dragged
away by his back feet. She will never touch him
again, though she hears him howl and calls back
for days.

Her breast milk is banked for others. Her son
is pulled away to lie in his box.
He will be packed for slaughter. How ingenious
we are! To make product from byproduct.
To make use of the child,
kill and pack and truck him to plates.

And when the gallons slow, we start over,
and her body says, Love this! And she does,
though in a moment she will never touch
him again. His milk is not for him.

And when the milk slows too slow,
she will join him on the line, pounds
of ground. And how we will dine!
And talk of our glossy dogs! And her body
will break up on our forks, as mothers
beg us for the grain we stuffed her with,
and children beg us for the water
scouring her blood from the factory walls.

And when her wastes and gases and panic
heat our air so hot our world stops
breathing-then will we stop? Then
will we grow kind, let the air cool
and mothers breathe?