tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53544036891269818422024-03-13T20:39:06.571-07:00The bits that are too longLiz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-16872269696363056422019-06-03T02:22:00.004-07:002019-06-03T02:22:52.835-07:00Hope<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The fire’s out now and you stand alone in the wasteland of your life. All around you see the remnants of your past and your future. Helpless, lost, numb, you’re barely conscious of crimson icicles wrapping themselves around you, stifling the screams in your throat. A bitter-sharp blast of wind whips your face and tears rush, unbidden, to your eyes. Torn fragments of lost dreams circle and disappear with the gust, which whispers a melancholic dirge as it passes. “It’s finished, it’s finished.” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">No. You’d shout if you cared. You rake half-heartedly through the ruins, searching for ... what? For something that will persuade you that this isn’t the end. For something that will make you believe in the impossible. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You’re bleeding now. Needle-sharp shards have pierced your heart, life is slipping away.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The light in your eyes grows weak. Your body is wracked by stabbing pain. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then - something. At first you refuse to acknowledge the warmth but it’s there, just. You look but can’t see the source. It must be there. Now, suddenly alert, you grab at things, scattering rubbish, shifting debris, cutting your hands as you dive into the wreckage. Just as you’re ready to give up, too weak to go on, you find it, camouflaged amongst the rubble. The wind that took your dreams blows softly on it and the darkness itself is lit by the glowing ember, the fire that can’t be extinguished, that’s always there, the hope that makes the difference between living and dying.</span><br />
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Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-11807108364229570162019-04-19T01:32:00.002-07:002019-04-19T01:32:36.245-07:00Mary's Lament<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7zGWhHjCwtjr_rebbSdAaQ8jH9P_c4mJFwFLkJ2LP_MnQhy15VRTJ-NmPLkXtLwoWex4yctTekEG55xExQ7K4sTS8LGFLUHGF1IdYmwvBx5kXHWm2M-jG2N6EJPu6akE6dPCeo66pk38/s1600/cross+at+ffaldybrenin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="637" data-original-width="373" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7zGWhHjCwtjr_rebbSdAaQ8jH9P_c4mJFwFLkJ2LP_MnQhy15VRTJ-NmPLkXtLwoWex4yctTekEG55xExQ7K4sTS8LGFLUHGF1IdYmwvBx5kXHWm2M-jG2N6EJPu6akE6dPCeo66pk38/s320/cross+at+ffaldybrenin.jpg" width="186" /></a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And now. Now my baby is a man. And I kneel at the foot of a cross and watch him die. My first-born, my joy and my blessing, whipped and tormented. A mother shouldn’t have to see this. The infant that played at my feet. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">They said he would reign for ever. They – angels, shepherds, wise men – they all said he would be the hope and the saviour of his people. How can that be when he hangs limp and battered, dying a criminal’s death? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My hope has gone, crushed with my son. As his body is beaten and tortured so hope is cast out of my soul. As nails are hammered through his flesh, with each thud, my heart breaks a little more. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Blessed. The angel said I was blessed. Blessed to have found favour with God. And how does my blessing takes its form? It finds me at the foot of a cross as life drains from my son’s body. With each agonised breath he takes, I gasp for air for him. I call upon God to send his angels, to move heaven and earth to rescue his son – my son. I beat upon the ground and scream out to God, ‘For this? This is why he was born? No! Where are you?’ </span><br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My son is dead. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And now words return to me, words spoken by an old man in a temple. A sword will pierce your soul. And as my soul screams, I can only trust and wait, and wonder – what was it all for?</span><br />
<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>(A re-posting of an old piece for Good Friday.)</i></span>Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-39545458372868195062018-05-01T09:28:00.003-07:002018-05-01T09:28:37.500-07:00Black Marble<br />
<h1 align="center" style="tab-stops: 22.7pt; text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">People assume that because I come to the cemetery I
must be sad. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></h1>
<h1 align="center" style="tab-stops: 22.7pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 20.0pt; line-height: 150%; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Black
Marble<o:p></o:p></span></span></h1>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There’s a lot to be said for
being a Catholic. You only have to look at their gravestones. Every one a
mausoleum, with angels and harps and pedestals. And why shouldn’t you have
grandeur in death? Especially if you were deprived of it in life. Glory and
beauty.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I think they’re wonderful. Works of art. They’re my favourite
pieces in the cemetery. I come here most days. Tom thinks I’m mad. He says I
talk to the angels but I don’t. I just sit and think. He doesn’t understand.
This is my place. I always sit in this exact spot with my back against this
headstone. ‘Treasured memories of Richard Daniel Evans, dearly loved husband of
Mary. And of the above Mary Jane Evans. Sleeping where no shadows fall.’<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span>Sleeping where no shadows fall, I like that. No shadows, no
darkness, just sleep. I like to sleep. Sometimes I fall asleep with my head on
the grass. Or sometimes I think about Richard and Mary and wonder what their
lives were like, wonder if they would like me, wonder if they mind me sitting
with my back to them. I don’t think they would mind me resting on their stone.
The stone seems to welcome me in.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Don’t you get cold, Tom asks. No, I say, I take a blanket to
sit on and if it’s been raining I take a Sainsburys bag to put underneath. And
the stone is never cold, it has its own warmth. As if it’s still fed by the
earth. Black marble. Shining and bright and sparkling with atoms of life. Not
like white marble. White should be the living colour, shouldn’t it? White and
light and life. But it’s not, it’s flat and dead and ugly. Not like the black.
I told Tom, I said, when I die will you bury me, not burn me, and make sure I
have a headstone made of the finest black marble. He looked at me as if I were
mad. I said, promise, will you promise, I don’t want white. He said, you’re
spending too much time in the cemetery, it’s turning your mind. I said, no, you
should come with me, it’s beautiful, so peaceful. Some of us have got jobs to
go to, he said. Then he started on at me again about getting another job. He
said we won’t be able to afford the mortgage on this place if you don’t get a
job soon. I told him I’d tried. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">It caused our first big row me losing my job. He said I
should go to a tribunal, they can’t just sack you for no reason. They had a
reason I said, they didn’t want me anymore. He said that wasn’t enough of a
reason, I should fight it, get compensation. I wouldn’t because I knew I
couldn’t. I understood why. He didn’t because I didn’t tell him. Papa, don’t
preach, I said. He just looked at me.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That was one time I did talk to the angel. My stone is next
to a huge square white tomb. Twice as big as any other and always with fresh
flowers, whatever time of year it is. Sometimes I break off one head of a
flower and hold it as I sit and think. I don’t think the dead would mind and
I’m careful that I don’t spoil the arrangement. Rabaiotti, that’s the family
name. Carlo and Maria and then Antonio, their son. They still run the ice cream
parlour on the seafront. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">At the head of the tomb is a tall angel with flowing hair and
robes and wings, quite small wings. The angel isn’t doing anything, just
looking up to heaven. I told her that I’d lost my job and that she would be
seeing a lot more of me. I thought I saw a tear running down her face but when
I looked closer I saw it was only bird poo. She didn’t tell me I should go to a
tribunal. She just sang. She sings all the time. Madonna songs. She knows all
of them but she has her favourites. She likes to sing Hanky Panky. I tell her
she shouldn’t. I think perhaps she doesn’t know what it’s about and the fuss
there was about it. I say, shhh, people will hear you and it’s not what you’d
expect of an angel. But I join in when she sings Like a Prayer. Talking to the
angel is the closest I come to praying. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">There is one gravestone in the whole of the cemetery that
faces the wrong direction. I asked one of the gardeners why. He said Samuel
Roberts had killed himself and wasn’t allowed to be buried on hallowed ground
but I don’t know if that was true. It seems unfair if it is. He must have been
very sad to kill himself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The gardeners all know me. They used to ask if I was all
right but now they just ignore me. There’s one, younger than the rest, he chats
to me sometimes but I close my eyes until he goes away. Only once they made me
move. That was when there was a funeral. A grave was dug up near me and the
man’s wife was buried with him. What if they never really got on, I wanted to
say. Did anyone ask them if they wanted to be buried together? Or did their
daughters just assume things. People make assumptions all the time. I assumed
that the women at the graveside were the daughters of the dead woman because
they cried most. Hanging onto their husbands (another assumption) they wept for
their deceased mother. People assume that because I come to the cemetery I must
be sad. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span>I watched the funeral from behind one of the yew trees. The
cemetery lies along the bed of a valley that rises to a height at the far end.
There is a path up the middle lined by yew trees all shaped into fir cones.
When you stand at the gate, and stare straight ahead, you can’t see the graves
only the path leading to heaven. A clean white path leading slightly uphill. A
bit of an effort. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Some people walk their dogs here. Sometimes the dogs pee on
the gravestones. One little dog, a spaniel, always comes and says hello to me.
I don’t mind but his owner, a middle-aged woman in a waterproof jacket, calls
her away. Come away from the lady, Sally, she says. Not, don’t bother the lady,
but, come away, as if she might catch something. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then there are joggers I see regularly. Two men and a girl.
The men run together and talk as they run but the girl always listens to
headphones. I wonder why she doesn’t listen to the angels singing. You have to
listen to hear them. There are lots of angels in the cemetery because it’s a
very old cemetery and it seems people in the past liked angels more. One of
them only sings in Welsh, another sings Italian opera but I like mine best. She
senses my mood and knows what to sing without me saying anything. Today she’s
singing Cherish. You have to listen carefully, if you want to hear her. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span>Tom said, don’t you get bored sitting in the cemetery? I
said, of course not, you should come with me. I know he won’t or I wouldn’t ask
him. Grace Williams, her life a beautiful memory, her absence a silent grief.
Is that how you’d feel about me, I asked him. You’re not a memory, he said,
you’re here. He has no imagination, that’s his trouble.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I started coming here before I finished work. Sometimes in
the office, my life was becoming not beautiful. I didn’t want it to be ugly,
but my boss would shout in his stupid loud voice and I didn’t want to listen to
him so I’d go away and listen to the angel. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don’t sit here all the time. Sometimes I walk around and
read the words on the tombs. Some of them are so sad I cry. Babies no more than
two weeks old dying. Now where’s the point of that? And young husbands or
wives. And soldiers. The lucky ones whose bodies were found and brought home.
Welsh battalions going into battle. There’s even one old rugby player. It says
he was famous but I’ve never heard of him. Memories don’t last long. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"></span>An old gentleman walked past me yesterday. He was carrying a
large bunch of chrysanthemums. He raised his hat and said, good afternoon. He
was wearing a fawn overcoat and his shoes were like shiny chestnuts. I watched
him. He made his way to a grave not far from mine. It had a black marble stone.
He bent over and plucked out the dead flowers. He lay them on the grass beside
the grave then he picked up the vase and emptied out the remains of the water.
He walked over to one of the taps near the wall around the cemetery and rinsed
out the vase, before refilling it. He returned to the grave and replaced the
vase in its holder, then he unwrapped the flowers he had brought with him and
arranged them in the vase. When he’d finished he wrapped the dead flowers in
the paper and stood up. He took off his hat and bowed his head for a few
moments. Then he put his hat back on, picked up the dead flowers and started
back along the path. I waited until I was sure that he had gone then I walked
across to the grave he had visited. It said, In loving memory of Katherine Wallace,
1933-1982, wife of Edward, and their beloved daughter, Jennifer, 1957-1984.
Peace, perfect peace. For whom, I wondered. For them maybe. Not for him. They’d
left him. And he’d raised his hat to me. That wasn’t fair. My eyes ached. I
picked out the chrysanths he’d arranged and took them back to my stone and
pushed them in the vase. Richard and Mary never have flowers. I should get them
more. Lots of the graves never have flowers on them. On the edge of the path is
a rubbish tip where people can throw dead flowers but sometimes, I’ve noticed
the flowers aren’t properly dead. I walked over to the tip and collected the
best of the flowers. They were mostly chrysanthemums and some roses that had
sharp thorns and I<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>shared them out
between some empty graves. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I got home last night Tom had his dinner on a tray. I
bought a curry on my way home, he said, I knew you wouldn’t have cooked
anything. I was going to, I said. He was watching a sports quiz on television.
There’s some left, he waved his fork at the kitchen. I’m not hungry, I think
I’ll have a bath. Tom said, just a minute, did you go and see the doctor today?
I forgot, I said. You promised, he said. I know, I’m sorry, I’ll go tomorrow.
He looked at me and sighed, I’ve arranged to meet the lads down the pub later.
That’s fine, I said. But you will go tomorrow, won’t you? Tom said, I really
think you need to talk to someone. I nodded.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He had gone to work by the time I woke up this morning. He
had left a note by the side of the bed. He’d written down the doctor’s
telephone number. Ring him, the note screamed. It added to the rest of the
noise in my head, such a lot of noise, a drilling and shrieking and howling
noise all mixed up. I was thirsty but there wasn’t a clean cup so I used my
hands to splash my face, then I came here. To escape the noise. It stayed with
me until I passed the chapel, I thought it was going to go on for ever but it
stopped as I came through the gate and began to walk up the path to my grave.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br />Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-69167502682897333942017-06-16T09:55:00.001-07:002017-06-16T09:55:39.035-07:00The story-teller<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Lying on his back in the grass at the foot of the tree, the story-teller looks up at the sky. He closes his eyes and begins to talk.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He speaks of the time before time when there were only three and the love he carried overflowed and he needed a container to hold all that tumbled out.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">He tells how he blew onto a ray of light until it shattered and a myriad of colours fell at his feet. </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And from these colours, the reds and yellows and blues, </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">the violets and emeralds, olives and scarlets, jades and crimsons, lemons and coppers, </span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">he created a paradise, a world so fair no-one could imagine its like.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">And then he let his characters tell their own stories, weave their own tales from the materials and inspiration he provided. And he sat back and watched and waited.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But because he loved his characters, he sometimes reached out when they were lost and showed them the way or whispered in their ears when they were lonely in the hustle of the day. And with each tentative step they took, he watched and smiled and sometimes cried, because when they hurt, his heart ached for them, for he loved them so.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then the day came when the story-teller said, ‘Stop, this pain is too much to bear.’ And sucking in the shards of the rainbow left on the floor from the beginning he became a character in his own story and walked with his creations in the damaged and desecrated storyland.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Now the story-teller stares at the branches of the tree above as if seeing history in its skeleton. His breathing quickens, tears fall from his eyes and beads of sweat form on his forehead. And he turns to me, grabs my hand and says, ‘Tell, them, tell them that’s it over and it hasn’t yet begun. Tell them that their names are written on the palms of my hands.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then he holds out his hands for me to see and before my eyes, names appear, one after one. ‘Tell them,’ he continues, ‘I have not forgotten them. Although it may seem for a time that I have left them without a future, their story was written before they were born and it can never end. It goes on for all eternity. This is my truth, my promise, my reassurance. My reassurance is not an unreal guarantee made up by someone who pretends to know. My words are truthful. I am the story-teller. Out of my heart love and life overflow. You were created from the outpourings of my heart. For you, I became part of the story. I tell you this now, to remember when I seem far away. The story-teller lives within each of his characters and ours is a never-ending story.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">With that the story-teller turns over and lies back. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply. I watch him for a long moment then I lie down beside him, resting my head on his chest. I can feel his heartbeat, strong and constant. I am aware of his arm drawing me close. Then I fall asleep on the grass at the foot of the tree.</span><br />
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Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-52187114547101482152016-09-23T02:14:00.000-07:002016-09-23T02:14:24.234-07:00A prayer for my bambino<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">You are a child of the world, a child born out of and into love. The journal of your life is yet to be written, blank pages for you to write your own story. And it will be an adventure story.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I pray that your life will be long and filled with love. I pray that you will grow strong and healthy in body and spirit. I pray that you will find delight in the ordinary and excitement in the extraordinary.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I pray you will see beauty everywhere, that you will be a friend to the friendless and that, like your parents, you will care deeply for all of God’s creation.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I thank God that you have been born into a family that loves you and I pray that love will shape your attitude and provide assurance and a refuge as you go on your adventure through life. I pray that your heart will rule your head, that you will dare, that you will believe in yourself, that you will dream big.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And I pray that, like your parents, you will find your passion and that you will follow it with all your heart.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I pray that when you face trouble you will have the courage to stay true, to stand tall, to say, I am loved by my family and by the one who knit me together in my mother’s womb.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So, my beautiful baby, know that we will be cheering you on all the way, on your great big wonderful adventure of life.</span><br />
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Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-68720576507830217932016-08-04T12:02:00.004-07:002016-08-13T09:26:41.630-07:00What to do when I'm dead - a plan in eight parts<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Death brings with it its own terrible confusion. Life is just wrong somehow. Nothing is in its proper place. The world is back to front and upside down and nothing makes sense. That’s why I am giving you this plan, to help you make sense of the un-sensible. Don’t rush it. Living after death takes time.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">1) Don’t be afraid of dead. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Don’t let raw hurt be buried beneath gentle phrases. Give grief its proper due as the right feeling, the only feeling. I have not passed away or fallen asleep; I am dead. For me this is a step on my journey; for you it is the end of the world. It feels like the end of the world. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It isn’t. But you are allowed, you have my permission if you need it, to believe for a while that life has lost its meaning. And don’t be afraid that this will be too much. This is what death does. It hurts almost unbearably. But you will bear it. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">2) And don’t be afraid to cry. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Don’t think that if you start you’ll never stop. In the history of the world that has never happened. Crying is good. Cry with others, others who loved me and love you. You’ll say crying won’t solve anything, won’t bring me back and it won’t. But if the tears don’t flow where will they go? Will you store them up until the dam bursts and you’re left dry and bitter? Crying is good.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But crying has a season and on the day you realise you forgot me for all of five minutes you’ll know the season is changing. Don’t feel bad. Don’t be sad. Be grateful for the change. Look around and see the things that you’ve neglected in your sorrow. They need you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">3) Now is the time to remember. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">You’ll say that’s what I’ve been doing all this time but I say, yes, but you’ve been remembering through a mist of gloom. Even when you’ve laughed at stories well-meaning friends have told of me the laughter hasn’t touched your heart, softened it. Your laughter has been on the outside, for their benefit not yours. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So take time to think, to remember the girl I was, the woman I became. Remember the time when … and that time that … and let me speak to you. See my face not through the blur of tears but in the sunshine. Remember the feel of my body, the touch of my hands, moments of intimacy, moments of joy. Remember how I drove you mad with all the stupid things I did. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">4) Then talk about me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">To those who loved me best. Those who are familiar with the stories and can finish them when the words stick in your throat. And cry some more together as you realise that the pain isn’t as unbearable as it once was. That the heavy ache that has become so much part of your being that you hardly notice it any more is less. It’s still there but seems lighter somehow.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">5) Now the hardest bit: learn to laugh again. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Real laughter, not forced. Today you’ll say I have nothing to laugh about but you will have. Life will go on. Life will continue for you and the children. You will get up each morning, do what has to be done and go to bed at night and one day you’ll find yourself laughing, maybe at a memory of me, or maybe at something unconnected with me altogether. Don’t feel guilty when that happens. Be glad. You’re becoming human again.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">6) I almost forgot. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">There will come a time when you’ll be concentrating hard on doing something and a sound will register vaguely in the background. You’ll think, without really thinking, there she is now back from shopping. And suddenly the awful realisation will hit you. She’s not back from shopping; she’ll never be back again. And the future will loom ahead of you like an infinite monster and you’ll wonder how you can be expected to get through those years without me. That will hurt so much. Almost as badly as the first searing pain but now you’re prepared; you know how to deal with this. Go back to the beginning. Start again. Cry, remember, talk and laugh. Repeat as necessary.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">7) And then there's anger.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, sans-serif;">Anger isn't helpful but it is inevitable. You may not feel it now or you may be unable to feel anything other. That's okay. Be angry with me for going first and leaving you. Be angry with God. For his wasted omnipotence. Be angry with strangers for living when I'm dead. It's not fair. But don't be angry with yourself. Unless you pushed me off a cliff it's not your fault. There's nothing you could have done. Death is like that. Uncaring and inopportune. So no what ifs, no I wish I'd done this or hadn't said that. Regrets are as pointless as wanting to turn back time. The present is all there is; today is all you have to get through.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: trebuchet ms, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">8) But remember this most of all. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I love you with all of my heart, with all of my being. You are the part of me that I was missing before we met; now I am the part of you that seems to be missing. But I’m not. I never can be. I’ll always be with you. In your heart, in our children, in our home, in your daily breath. I’m there. Talk to me sometimes. People will say you’re crazy but what do they know? Crazy is good. Trust me. I should know.</span><br />
<br />Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-80804735412740453632016-05-15T01:35:00.001-07:002016-05-16T09:33:44.590-07:00Little Mrs Men O'Paws<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Welcome to Happy Family Land. In this land all the houses are spotlessly clean, shirts are washed and freshly ironed and the cupboard is always full of home-baked cakes, except in Mrs Men O’Paws’ house.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>In Mrs O’Paws’ house, there are cobwebs in the corners, dirty shirts on the floor and cupboards that are bare.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCJu4MF4i1JKGEmJyMFNw9M8KMEXdQNTzLPhx7sMWI4jc5TUwmSoiRfzMCCQlgsIbB2ESVmirFziJ-QMZOXbHInC0QTWjn3setJCWgqgeoMgWg1VeA2FAeHPRRyr7wuevAFTtOlbmgO2o/s1600/20160516_172128.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCJu4MF4i1JKGEmJyMFNw9M8KMEXdQNTzLPhx7sMWI4jc5TUwmSoiRfzMCCQlgsIbB2ESVmirFziJ-QMZOXbHInC0QTWjn3setJCWgqgeoMgWg1VeA2FAeHPRRyr7wuevAFTtOlbmgO2o/s320/20160516_172128.jpg" width="196" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">One day at lunchtime when Mrs O’Paws was just starting to eat her Marmite and chocolate spread on toast, the phone rang. It was Mrs Potty.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Where are you?’ Mrs Potty said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘I’m here,’ said Mrs O’Paws.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘No,’ said Mrs Potty, ‘I mean why aren’t you here?’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘I am here,’ said Mrs O’Paws starting to feel confused.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘You can’t be, I’m here and you’re definitely not.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Mrs O’Paws had a think then said, ‘Well, if I’m not there, where are you?’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘In the restaurant where we’re supposed to be having lunch,’ Mrs Potty said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Mrs O’Paws laughed, ‘We’re not having lunch till Thursday, silly.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘It is Thursday.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Is it? Oh dear, I’m sorry, I forgot,’ said Mrs O’Paws.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The next morning Mrs O’Paws and Mr O’Paws were having breakfast in the kitchen. They were having dry corn flakes and black tea because Mrs O’Paws had forgotten to get any milk.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Mr O’Paws was reading his newspaper. He looked at Mrs O’Paws.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?’ he said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Mrs O’Paws burst into tears and ran upstairs to the bathroom. She stood behind the door sniffling. Mr O’Paws followed the noise. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘What’s the matter, dear?’ he said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Nothing. Everything. I don’t know.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Mr O’Paws thought it would be sensible for Mrs O’Paws to visit the doctor. When she arrived at the surgery she tried to open the door by pushing the one that said pull. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs O’Paws.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> She told the doctor about all the things that been happening. He said, ‘It’s your age. Take these pills. Goodbye.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span> Mrs O’Paws took one pill but then couldn’t remember where she had put the bottle and soon forgot what the doctor had said anyway.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">One morning the postman came early. He brought a letter for Mrs O’Paws. Mrs O’Paws loved to receive a letter but she needed her glasses to read it. She looked on the table, under the table, on the floor, down the back of the chair, next to her bed, on top of the microwave, in the dog’s bed. She looked everywhere but Mrs O’Paws couldn’t find her glasses.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>When Mr O’Paws got home from work that evening, he was hungry and he decided to make himself a sandwich He opened the fridge and took out the cheese box but there wasn’t any cheese there. Instead he found Mrs O’Paws’s glasses.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘I must have put them there by mistake,’ she said, ‘but what have I done with the cheese?’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>They looked everywhere but they couldn’t find the cheese.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘Oh dear, I’d better go to the supermarket tomorrow,’ Mrs O’Paws said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The next day Mrs O’Paws got up early to go to the supermarket. The supermarket was very big with lots of aisles and lots of different sorts of food. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Mrs O’Paws couldn’t remember what she wanted but she thought tins would be useful. She put in her trolley tins of baked beans, broad beans, green beans, kidney beans, white beans, has beans and a bar of chocolate. All the tins had given Mrs O’Paws an idea.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>She started to empty her trolley. She put the tins on the floor next to each other. When she had almost made a circle of tins, she put another layer on top and then another layer until she couldn’t reach any higher. Then she sat in the middle of her tin tower and ate her bar of chocolate.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">The supermarket manager was very understanding and sent for Mr O’Paws to come and take her home. Mr O’Paws said sorry to the supermarket manager who said, ‘That’s all right. We get a lot of ladies of a certain age in here.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Mr O’Paws thought it would be sensible for Mrs O’Paws to go and see Mr Therapy but Mrs O’Paws laughed.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>‘I don’t need to see Mr Therapy, ‘she said. ‘I feel much better now I know what to do.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">So if you’re ever in Happy Family Land and you see someone building a tower of tins, you’ll know who it is, won’t you?</span><br />
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Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-11617979293839403882016-05-09T06:20:00.001-07:002016-05-09T06:25:51.528-07:00Diary of the Mother of the Bride<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><i>(First published in the South Wales Evening Post)</i></span><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Valentine Countdown</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">1st January 2003</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">New Year resolution number 1: I will no longer leave everything until the last minute but will emulate boy scouts and be prepared, and well-organised.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">New Year resolution number 2: start serious diet as of now.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Shall begin by taking in hand organisation of daughter’s upcoming nuptials. Consult Ms Etty Kett’s Guide to Modern Marriage. Page 43, Invitations should be sent out at least three months in advance.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Wedding is 14th February, giving us, let’s see, six weeks and two days precisely. Bother. Must be a record – breaking New Year resolution that quickly - even for me. Christmas truffles offer consolation. Mmmm, feel better already ... oh, bother, bother. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Will not be downhearted at obvious flaw in resolution plans i.e. me, but will persevere. Make list of ‘things to do’, in no particular order.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Slightly concerned about length of list and number of times word ‘buy’ crops up. Tell myself that that, at least, is husband’s worry, not mine and concentrate instead on most important task: write piece to read at wedding. Plan to write moving and sensitive piece to ensure wet-eyed delight, foiled by daughter saying, ‘you won’t write anything cheesy and sentimental, will you?’ Bother, bother, bother. Could be a long and too short six weeks.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Stressful afternoon making wedding invitations. Not helped by son-in-law-to-be ‘mushing’ daughter’s hearts and me guillotining hand, resulting in tasteful bright red splodge additions to invites. Tell daughter that red is a very romantic colour, often associated with hearts, especially bleeding ones. Son-in-law-to-be decides to visit long lost friend, daughter takes long lasting bath. I am left to devise ‘economical with the truth’ method of telling Grandma that the invites are on their way. Really.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Diary 2</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">On 14th February, my daughter, Anna, will marry Steven. That gives me ... not long to find an outfit. Set off for Mumbles. Park illegally for five, yes, five, minutes, and return to find car clamped. Not good start to the day. Plan to shout at man who comes to release car but change mind when I see size of him, and seethe inwardly instead. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Follow this with visit to dress shop but waste of time as too clamp-raged to concentrate so return home to grumble at everyone.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Sit at computer to start writing piece for wedding. While waiting for inspiration, play Spider Solitaire. Complete it at fifth attempt. Reward myself with choccy bar, saying, ‘it has to be eaten.’ Decide to write w.p. when more inspired.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Pre-wedding plan for new me: 1) attend first Pilates exercise class. Jackie, the teacher, says my stomach contraction is ‘brilliant’. Swell with pride, belly flops and I get told off. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">2) buy anti-wrinkle cream. Wish manufacturers had spotted link between ageing skin and failing eyesight before printing labels. Want to believe it will do what it says on the pot, whatever that may be, but can it do it in four weeks? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">During regular night-time read of Ms Etty Kett’s guide, discover that licence is needed for marriage to take place. Make note to remind self to remind daughter and son-in-law-to-be of this fact. Own wedding is vaguest dim memory. Assume all was done properly then. Won’t check … don’t want to give husband excuse to cut up credit cards.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Trek round clothes shops again. Singularly unsuccessful. Determined not to panic. What I really need is a shop called Clothes-R-Not-Me but cup of tea and muffin will have to do for now.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Reluctantly visit Allison Jayne. Have been putting this off because a) not me i.e. too smart, and b) too expensive. Surprisingly, find outfit that is me. Unsurprisingly, v. expensive. Go home outfit-less to panic.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Pippa, lovely lady who makes incredible hats, says, really, she needs a month if I want one to match my outfit, and have I got it yet? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Have first hot flush. Give hormones good talking to. Cannot put up with menopausal attacks as well as everything else. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Phone Dylan Thomas Centre regarding evening party. Wayne says there’s plenty of time and no need to do anything yet. I think I love him. </span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Diary 3</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Take daughter to see outfit I had tentatively, and foolishly as it turns out, thought to be ‘quite nice’. She declares it too reminiscent of the old hippie me. Yeah, cool, what’s wrong with that, man? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">A lot, apparently. Agree we will look elsewhere but keep it in mind if I get desperate. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Suggest local Hotel as possibility for happy couple’s wedding night but snooty man on reception there looks down his nose at us and tells us they’re full – this in spite of me being assured there was plenty of room when I enquired earlier (and again later). Make note to avoid local Hotel in future.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Book hair appointments for bridesmaids. Two maids and ... two different dresses. Daughter decides it will be all right as they can be linked together with contrasting bouquets (as opposed to my suggestion of heavy metal chains). </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Husband starts to plan speech. Will not allow me power of veto. ‘Should I be concerned?’ I ask. He responds by enquiring if I have written my piece yet. I leave room hurriedly and head for teapot.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Find myself hiding behind doors to avoid the inevitable, ‘Have you got your outfit?’ Even shopping for food becomes stress-inducing as old school friends recognise me from the newspaper and ask the same question.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">According to Ms Etty Kett’s timetable, by now, we should be sitting back calmly waiting for the great day. Ms Smarty Pants Kett is beginning to irk.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Relax at Limeslade collecting stones for wedding. Dog eats sticks while I am distracted by variety of colours and shapes. Find one that bears striking resemblance to Sean Connery. Take it home to keep with stick that looks like aardvark. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Become aware that I am talking to myself as I wander around. Talking to myself not a problem – everyone does it, don’t they? It’s the hysterical high-pitched giggle that causes passers-by to do so rapidly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">New term at El Greco’s dancing class. Husband and I took it up in order to trip the slightly overweight fantastic at wedding party. Suspect we will only look good if we don’t have to do corners. Perhaps could use analogy of dancing lessons in piece to be written for wedding. “As you waltz through life, remember that, on a small dance floor, there are many corners and the man always leads.” Then again...</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Diary 4</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Have developed intermittent twitch in lower left eyelid. Hope it goes before wedding. Have already had wink returned by strange man in woods. Must remember to avoid that path for time being.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Momentous news of week – have bought outfit. But discover that, apparently, I need hat, shoes, underwear (mine has given up uneven battle and dangles limply along with body parts) and handbag (have to carry bride’s make-up on the day but carrier bag will do for that, surely?)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Put body in capable hands of lovely lady in posh underwear shop in arcade. Leave with everything I need and new shape. Realise I have bigger boobs than Barbara Windsor. Obviously missed my vocation in life. But wait, I feel inspiration coming on ... “In the soap opera of marriage, may you never meet Phil Mitchell.” No, perhaps not. But really must start writing wedding piece.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Remember world outside wedding and squeeze anti-war march in between hat fitting and shoe hunting. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Wonder what’s happened to all the shoe shops. Oxford Street used to be underfoot with them — now I can’t find any.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Give up, and seek refuge in tea and cake. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Reminds me that diet seems to have oozed away. Similarly anti-wrinkle cream having no obvious effect on furrows.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Come up with alternative plan and stock up on vitamin C, evening primrose and cod liver oil. Would buy some of that stuff that helps slow memory loss but can’t remember what it’s called.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Must decide on table decorations soon. So that no-one who thinks they should be sitting on table 2 finds themselves sitting on table 7, decide to name tables after beaches. Langland, Caswell, Three Cliffs, Rosil ... Rhosyl, Worm’s Head and so on. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Deliver cake to Barbara, who will ice it. Great sense of relief on handing it over, knowing won’t see it again until the reception. Can no longer prod it and worry if it’s overcooked. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Make practice alternative carrot wedding cake, for those who don’t like traditional. Looks a bit soggy in middle, better eat my way in to check.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Mike, who is to play drums at wedding, is admitted to hospital. Feel this is not good timing. Must speak sternly to him.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Plan to spend evening punching hearts thwarted by punch losing its grip. I can empathise.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Diary 5</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Shoe shopping expedition. Lose interest two minutes into first shop. Have never managed to persuade myself that things sticking out at ends of legs look anything other than peculiar. Not helped by irregularly-digited foot. End up with shoes that fit but don’t match anything. Tell myself that no-one looks at shoes anyway.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Think outfit just about complete but then friends say I have to have a handbag to put my ready-for-crying tissues in. Am told that a carrier bag will not do.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">See advert on television: “Big day ahead? The last thing you want to worry about is constipation.” Hadn’t realised it should be on my list of possible problems. Then friend says he was constipated on honeymoon. Obviously potential cause for concern here. Will definitely stock up on All Bran for whole family. But what if we overdo it? Now I’m worried.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Flick through magazine while standing in queue at supermarket. Read how stars lose weight in a hurry. Can’t afford their methods so decide short crash diet only way to go. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Later on, manage, at fifth attempt, to make number of meals required at reception equal number of guests. Reward self with single grape. Sigh like a true martyr.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Have to eat dinner on trays as dining table covered with place cards and Order of Services. Leave trail of glitter and silver hearts behind me everywhere I go. Rather like pantomime fairy. Or possibly Dame.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Wonder why ‘to do’ list appears to be getting longer rather than shorter. And days in which to do it getting fewer. Wish people would stop pointing out this fact.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Make second practice carrot wedding cake. Attempt to avoid sogginess of last one results in burned edges. Smother it with lemon icing and explain crunchy bits away as nuts. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Final visit to Castellmare to confirm reception details turns out not to be final visit as have forgotten to take vital information with me. Janey, the wedding co-ordinator, is calmly reassuring.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">As is Wayne at Dylan Thomas Centre. He’s not even ruffled when I tell him which menu we want for evening buffet and then ask if we can change half of items on it. “No problem,” he says.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Sun shines and crocuses and snowdrops in garden blossom. Makes me smile. It’ll be all right. </span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Diary 6</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Wedding Day minus 2</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">‘To do’ list gets longer. Includes collecting driftwood and finding bit of old rope. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Search unsuccessfully for dark purple handbag. Carrier bag alternative seems more and more appealing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Spend an hour cutting out tissue paper petals that become more tooth-shaped as minutes tick away.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Husband draws up timetable to get us through next two days.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Wedding Day minus 1</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Make alternative carrot wedding cake. At least, would do if hadn’t run out of eggs and sugar. Adjust timetable to include trip to supermarket. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Spend afternoon skewering order of services together. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">11 pm and still have problem with icing, which persists in sliding off cake. According to timetable should have been asleep an hour ago. Tear up timetable.</span><br />
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<b><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Wedding Day</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">In town at 9 am waiting for shops to open so can buy handbag. Any handbag.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Rest of day is perfect. We are blessed. The sun shines and everything, absolutely everything, is wonderful. A brilliant start to married life for daughter and new son-in-law.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">It’s early Saturday morning before we flop into bed, exhausted but happy. And looking forward to relaxing by watching Wales beat Italy...</span><br />
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<br />Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-7957356485453376722016-04-14T11:35:00.001-07:002016-04-14T11:35:20.162-07:00My mother, my hero?<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">The question mark is important. As on my blog title leaving it out changes the whole meaning significantly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My mother was tall. At nearly six foot, she struggled to find clothes to fit her and mostly shopped by post through a catalogue for Tall Girls. She enjoyed her monthly magazines. Not for her the likes of Woman’s Own though. She read She and then later a new magazine, Nova I think it was. Glossy and fashionable, the thinking woman’s Vogue.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I write in the past tense because my mother died when I was nineteen. Still, nineteen years of knowing her should give me plenty to write about, comment on, anecdotes to relate, family stories to tell. But I know more about her reading habits than I do about her.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Most of what I know of my mother I have gleaned from relatives and friends. A loving woman who enjoyed life, was good to her parents and loved her daughter very much. She must have done: she was a hero to keep me, her child born out of wedlock without a man on the scene. And this was the 1950s. Episodes of Call the Midwife have made me realise just what she must have gone through: the shame, the gossip, the turned backs.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She had to work to keep me. Financially I mean. I don’t know what if any arguments she had with her parents or whether she considered adoption – my great-auntie Grace wanted to adopt me I know. So she worked five days a week as personal secretary to the General Manager of South Wales Transport and was highly thought of by everyone. When she died we had letters of condolence from ex-directors and top executives. At her funeral flower tributes lined the long path to my grandparents’ home. One, a pretty posy, was sent from a woman who worked in the company canteen. On the card she wrote, ‘Goodnight, sweet lady. Sleep tight.’ It seems most people knew her better than I did.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">No doubt that was partly because of the circumstances. Her long working days meant I was raised primarily by my slightly ferocious and very domineering grandmother but maybe she had to be after her daughter gave birth to a bastard child.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But facts. My mother was born in Mumbles to Jack and Gladys, and a few years later she was joined by John. As Gladys was the eldest of eight my mother had aunts and uncles who were roughly the same age as her and she was much loved by all. So I’m told.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I intended to keep me out of this. I’ve written plenty in the past, either fact or fiction, loosely based on how I felt as a child so I wanted this to be about my mother, but I’m finding it impossible. I am part of her and she is part of me. I am a key constituent in this tale. Or am I just giving myself the starring role in another’s story?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I remember waking in the night and calling, my mother coming and me weeping, ‘Nobody loves me.’ My mother shocked, hurt, eventually cross: this had happened before. ‘How can you say that when you know we all love you?’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And they did. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My mother wasn’t young having me. She was in her thirties not a foolish young girl carried away on drink or a romantic notion. She’d served in the forces, the WAAF, spending time in Egypt during the war, where, incidentally she lost an air plane propeller – the only story I’ve heard of her time there. And I don’t even know if she ever found it. Before that she lived in London briefly for nurse’s training but, as her grand-daughter would do sixty years later, she dropped out of big city life to return home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The Christmas before she died she bought me a sheepskin jacket. She was so proud of it, making me put it on to show visitors. It must have taken her ages to save or pay it off and she really believed I too would be thrilled. I tried to be but compared to my cousin in her pale well-fitted sheepskin I looked and felt like a chubby dumpling in my dark, less shapely version. My mother couldn’t even get the colour right. What I’d really wanted of course, like my cousin again, was a car. A ridiculous pipe dream; I knew that. There was no money spare. And, anyway, we were bus people.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFAweOfdZIHAgv6Hh7i3o46VKjabKJ4R4Xf9FXpVKt734rNAeBodx75ngd6GJ3wYFrSDa1pCf6K-S77SYlBuH3-fIc_sGHMGuteKirtsEED5oFfZB1SF8HQZuHvbcqNT7j6wfXLdH6PvM/s1600/P1100425.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFAweOfdZIHAgv6Hh7i3o46VKjabKJ4R4Xf9FXpVKt734rNAeBodx75ngd6GJ3wYFrSDa1pCf6K-S77SYlBuH3-fIc_sGHMGuteKirtsEED5oFfZB1SF8HQZuHvbcqNT7j6wfXLdH6PvM/s200/P1100425.JPG" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We definitely weren’t horse people. But a childhood of reading books where the heroine had or longed for and finally got her own pony left its mark. I’d never even ridden a horse. If I’d got close to one I’d probably have been scared. But that didn’t stop me dreaming and secretly hoping.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">That year my Christmas present was a statuette of a mare and foal. The next best thing. No, not the next best, not even the fiftieth best. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So maybe she knew almost as little about me as I knew about her. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If the situation had been reversed and it had been me who’d died would I have become the paragon of virtue that is described to me? The perfect daughter, although no-one really knew me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She called me to her one day and showed me a tiny snapshot of a group of people. She pointed at a man in the photo. ‘That’s your father,’ she said before she added hurriedly, ‘and it was only ever him, you know.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I don’t remember what I did then but the photo was put away and we never mentioned it or my father again. Now when I look at the photo – I’m not even sure it’s the right one – I guess to remember which man she pointing at. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I was maybe ten or eleven at the time. An innocent ten for all that this was the swinging sixties. An innocent who’d never doubted or questioned the story that her parents had separated and her father was working in India. And I remember thinking, ‘Everyone knows. Everyone except me.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">But maybe those lies helped me survive, to get through life in an unforgiving, morally upright – in public at least – world.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So my mother was tall.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My mother lied to me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My mother didn’t know me.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She came to my bedroom one evening and sat on the bed. ‘How would you like to live in Africa?’ Her voice said this was an exciting opportunity. Her voice said we could live a new life, create another story. ‘We would have servants.’ She’d been offered a job there she said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Selfish to the last I cried, ‘No, I don’t want to go.’ Didn’t want to leave everything that was familiar and safe.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Maybe she hadn’t really wanted to go but she didn’t push it. She didn’t mention it again. Sometimes I wondered if it were really a job she’d been offered or was it a relationship? Did she turn down a chance of happiness for me?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So many things I don’t know. My uncle tells me that she lost a man she loved during the war. I don’t know; she didn’t tell me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She did tell me some things. She told me to be careful of strange men on buses especially if they began fiddling with their trousers. But she never told me of her hopes or dreams. Maybe she would have had she lived, had we got to know each other. As she played with her grandchildren maybe she’d have told me how hard it had been to walk to the bus stop in those early days, to hold her head up, to not deny the truth. To not regret. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She was brave. She was vivacious. She did her best.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I’d watch her socialising, talking, laughing with people and wonder how I, her daughter, could be so different. How indeed I could be so different from everyone else in the extended family. Or how does a child get an idea that she is unloved?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The last night I was asleep in bed when I was woken by a thud from the bathroom next door. I heard my grandmother rushing in, saying, ‘Marg? Are you all right? Marg!’ I clambered out of bed and in the bathroom saw my mother lying, unconscious, on the floor by the sink, a small pool of blood next to her mouth. ‘Quick,’ my grandmother said, ‘get dressed and go and call the doctor.’</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I pulled on clothes and ran down the road to the telephone box outside the Post Office. Somehow through my garbled explanation, ‘my mother, she’s sort of collapsed, she’s lying on the floor,’ the doctor had the sense to realise the seriousness and called an ambulance.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Over the next week or so she had two operations to clear the blood still fuzzing her brain. The night before the second operation my cousin’s girlfriend, Anne, drove my grandmother, my great-aunt (the one who had wanted to adopt me) and me to visit. While we were there my mother said to me, ‘You look familiar. Are you Peter?’ Anne squeezed my hand sympathetically.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">On the way home from visiting we were involved in a fatal accident. The insurance claim covered professional cleaning for my sheepskin coat, to remove the blood from it. ‘You could claim for a replacement,’ they said.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">‘No, I’ll keep this. This is fine.’</span><br />
<br />Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-9392610469354468192013-03-31T02:05:00.001-07:002013-03-31T02:05:33.708-07:00SorryOkay, sorry, have brought back word verification as I'm fed up of anonymous spam commenters.<br />
<br />
Apart from that, happy Easter! Hope today is wonderful for you.Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-50193876449239072572012-10-29T07:19:00.004-07:002012-10-29T07:21:33.415-07:00My act of worship<br />
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Diary</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Wednesday</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Got up. Made porage and sandwiches. Dressed. Took children to school. Went to Sainsburys. Came home. Resisted temptation to leave shopping on kitchen floor and unpacked bag after bag after bag of shopping. Listened to the Archers. Walked the dog. Fetched children from school. Cooked dinner. Took son to football training. Fetched son from football training. Watched TV. Came to bed. Fell in gratefully, relieved to have got through another day. Thank God.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Thank God for his gift of the Holy Spirit who alone gave me the courage to get out of bed this morning.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Thank God that he enabled me to quash the unknowable fears that overtake my mind at the prospect of a trip to the supermarket.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Thank Jesus that his name, silently mouthed in the frozen foods aisle, is a refuge from terror which threatens.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Thank God for the wonder of his creation and the dog whose need for exercise forces me to step out of myself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Thank God today for the violets, fragile delicate blooms, not intimidated by more powerful neighbours and hard winter conditions. Against the odds, they return renewed and beautiful, time after time, a triumph of hope over reality.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Thank God for the victories of the day, small, insignificant though they appear, they made the difference.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This then is my life at the moment.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">So here’s what I want you to do, God helping you: Take your everyday, ordinary life — your sleeping, eating, going-to-work, and walking-round life — and place it before God as an offering.Embracing what God does for you is the best thing you can do for him.</span></i><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This then is my offering, my worship.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">A litany of fears and anxieties; a shambling, pathetic offering to God.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I stand before him, a shuffling cripple, and say, ‘Take me as I am, I can come no other way.’ Weak and helpless, I can do no more, or no less, than call on him.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And in response he walks beside me, he holds my hand, he carries me. He wipes my tears and understands my fears - fears I don’t even understand myself.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And he is triumphant. He turns my weakness into his strength. He offers hope that things can change.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then I will go to the altar of God, to God, my joy and my delight. I will praise you with the harp, O God, my God. Why are you downcast, O my soul? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my saviour and my God.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></i>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The bits in italics are from the bible, the first from The Message translation, the second from the NIV.</span><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-38010472156295777852011-12-19T08:26:00.000-08:002011-12-19T08:27:11.068-08:00Joe's story<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I was 12 and it was just another day. I was doing my paper
round in the rain and I was soaking wet when one of the doors opened. A man
asked me if I’d like to come in and have a cup of tea. I was glad of a warm. I
didn’t think anything about the bits in the cup at the end. It wasn’t until I
was walking home and the lamp-posts started trying to bite me that I knew I’d
had mushroom tea.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Then I tried the bong and it was like nothing I’d done
before. By the time I was 15 my mum and dad couldn’t take any more of me and I
lived on the streets for a while, taking all sorts. I moved back home and got
work. I was earning more money than I was used to and I really hit the drugs
and drink and was fighting all the time. I got cut up bad one day and when my
mum called the doctor I lost it with him. I ended up in a mental hospital for 6
months.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I came out of there to a hostel and met my first partner. We
lost a baby and I couldn’t stop feeling it was down to me because of all the
drugs. I talked to my dad and we grew close like never before but then he died
and my world fell apart. I hit the drugs again bad.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Then my partner had a little girl. She was my world. When we
had a little boy my partner gave me an ultimatum: us or the drugs and fighting.
I ignored her and kept doing what I was doing then I got home one day and she’d
left me. My mum begged me to stop too but I loved the drugs and the fighting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I was out of control and when one of my dealers asked me to
do a job for him I didn’t think nothing of it. All I had to do was ram someone
off the road. I did it. 500 pills. Lovely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Next day my kids’ mum phoned me asking me about my car.
Turned out it was her cousin I’d put in hospital. I lied. Told her it wasn’t
me. I told her I’d sold my car. I had to sell it quickly but when the police traced
the car to the boy I’d sold it to I had to shut him up. I beat him up. That got
me 6 months in jail. That’s when I started to smoke the brown (heroin).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">When I got out I moved into a flat with a new partner. We
had a baby and for a while I gave up most of the drugs but we needed money so I
went back to work on the doors. I was soon as bad as I’d been before. I thought
I had it hidden but my partner found out and made me choose between her and the
baby and my work. I loved my job and the drugs too much so I moved out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Then one night my head went like never before. I was out for
blood. I went to see my mate and he started laughing at me. Bang, bang, I had
to knock him out. Bang, bang. I broke his nose and jaw. He started coming back
for more. I wasn’t taking any risks. Bang, bang, I couldn’t stop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I put him in a coma.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I got 5 years IPP. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I was in prison and in a mess.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Then I met Lionel and started going to church. A man called
Steve came in to speak and he told us what his life had been like and how he’d
let the Lord into it. One of the church group prayed for me and it was like the
best high I ever had. I asked Jesus into my life and my life turned round for
the better.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My mum died last year before she had seen me beat the drugs
but I know my mum and dad are looking down on me. I never told my dad I loved
him. Last week I phoned my sister and told her I loved her. She was suspicious,
‘What you up to, Joe?’ but I understand now how much they mean to me. I know
what’s important. It was all about money before.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It’s been a hard journey. The hardest thing I’ve ever done.
Soul-searching. I didn’t do emotions but I love myself now. Out of a really bad
situation some good has come. I get laughed at on the wings but I don’t care. I’d
rather talk to someone now than fight them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I’m hoping I’ll get into Teen Challenge when I get out. I’ve
got so many plans. I want to help others meet Jesus. He’s my best mate, the one
who’s always there for me and who really does answer prayers.</span><o:p></o:p></div>Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-61486010870441700942011-11-20T09:37:00.000-08:002011-11-20T09:38:25.189-08:00For my little almost-English boy<div><span class="Apple-style-span" >May you grow strong in body and mind.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >May you abound in energy and enthusiasm.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >May you sleep at peace with the world and may your dreams be limited only by your imagination.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >May you stretch out your hand and reach for the trees and the sky, for rainbows and shooting stars.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >May you walk the path God has laid before you, your eyes fixed on him.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >May you relish challenge and find the strength and resources to face difficulties, resolve dilemmas and may you come through smiling and in good spirit.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >May you see the miraculous in the mundane, wonder in the workaday.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >May you seek truth, the truth that frees and enriches.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >May your heart be for others; may you be an instrument for change.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >May you experience passion and peace.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >May you know the exhilaration of success and the refreshing of solitude.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >May you have friends who support, love and admonish you.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >May laughter be always near your eyes and a loving heart your constant companion.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >And know this:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Wherever you go,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Whatever you do,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >You are loved without condition</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >By your mum and dad,</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >And by your grandparents.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >But great as our love for you is</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >It is nothing in comparison to the love the King of the universe has for you.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >May you become the man God has created you to be, a man fulfilled, who knows what true wealth is and who can consider himself the richest man in the world.</span></div><div><br /></div>Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-78467846906435561222011-09-09T14:01:00.000-07:002011-09-09T14:02:56.980-07:00The parable of the builder<div><span class="Apple-style-span" >A builder was told to go to Swansea and build a new church. He was to spare no expense as it was to be a special church, the best church he could build. To start him off on his task his boss gave him a foundation stone made of pure gold.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >When he arrived in Swansea the builder began to gather materials to build the church but instead of going to the usual merchants he trawled scrapyards, junk heaps and rubbish tips for damaged bricks, cracked glass and rotted wood. Other builders in Swansea who’d heard rumours about this new special church laughed at him but he just smiled and kept on collecting the bricks rejected by everyone else.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >Then he began to build the church. First he put in place the foundation stone his boss had given him. Then he carefully laid down bricks cementing them together with patience; he glued the glass back together with care; and he repaired the wood with love. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >As the church took on its shape the other builders laughed even more because from the outside it looked shabby and marred. But anyone who ventured inside found it to be more magnificent than the cathedrals of old, full of precious stones, diamonds and rubies, emeralds and sapphires, that sparkled and shone in the glow of the foundation stone. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><br /></div>Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-37592835074304767892011-09-09T11:25:00.000-07:002011-09-09T11:28:56.146-07:00The parable of the black sheep and the shepherd<div><span class="Apple-style-span" >There was a flock of sheep. Most of them enjoyed life but not all of them were happy. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >There was a black sheep. All the other sheep made fun of him because he was different.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >An ugly sheep was fed up of being told by the other sheep that he was useless and good for nothing.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >A sheep who’d spent most of his life in a pen struggled to fit in with the others. None of them trusted him and wouldn’t let him play with them.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >A sheep who had been wounded couldn’t keep up with the other sheep and was always being left behind.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >One of the sheep liked to travel from place to place. The other sheep thought he was mad and turned their backs on him whenever he turned up.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >The shepherd didn’t give a monkeys about the sad sheep and the rejected sheep; he only cared about the size of his flock.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >But one day another shepherd appeared and he knew the black sheep, the ugly sheep, the one who couldn’t fit in, the one who’d been hurt and the one who was only there sometimes and he called them by name. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >And they left the flock and followed him to a place where the ground was level and all sheep were accepted.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-11466481950415521752011-07-12T14:36:00.000-07:002011-07-12T14:37:38.515-07:00Zac's psalm of gratitude<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Give thanks to the Lord for he is good.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%">His love endures forever</span></i><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%">.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >His grace is more than we need.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >He has saved us and promises us life eternal.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >His love for us is unconditional, undeserving though we are.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >He doesn’t ask or expect us to measure up to his standards <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >but with patience and understanding<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >he helps us through the struggles on our daily journey.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%">His love endures forever</span></i><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%">.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Give thanks to the Lord<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >for Jesus, his son;<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >for the inspiration of John Smith and the ministry of Sean Stillman<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >through whom the community of Zac’s Place came into being;<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >for us, the ragamuffins, walking miracles testifying to the goodness of God.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%">His love endures forever</span></i><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%">.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Give thanks to the Lord<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >for today, for the miracle of each new day,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >for sunshine and for rain,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >for the food we are going to eat,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >for tea and biscuits,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >for the wonder of new life,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >for the best smile in Swansea,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >for this our family and for on-going friendship.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%">His love endures forever</span></i><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%">.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="font-size: 10pt; line-height: 115%; "><br /> </span> </span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Give thanks to the Lord<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >who has chosen us and shown us his vision,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >whose promises can be trusted,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >who gives us our talents and the calling in which to use them,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >who has provided us with a courageous spirit <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >that helps us to be open to new experiences,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >who grants us peace during the hard times,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >who makes his will known to us,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >and who gives us the strength to accept that will.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%">His love endures forever</span></i><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%">.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Give thanks to the Lord, the bringer of peace.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >We are new creations, new once and for always.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >We are recovering and recovered <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >and one day our recovery will be complete.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >For this we thank you, Lord.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%">His love endures forever</span></i><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%">.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >We eagerly anticipate the rest of the exciting journey <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >that will see your promises and plans for us fulfilled.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >For freedom of choice, for individuality,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >for a reason to go on living, we thank you, Lord,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%">His love endures forever</span></i><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%">.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Because you won’t take a day off from caring, we give you thanks.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Because you will blow away the smoke and all that blurs our senses, <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><span style="font-size:10.0pt; line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >we thank you Lord.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:2.0pt"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >His love endures forever</span></span></i><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%">.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-13696986808273957842011-06-15T06:56:00.000-07:002011-06-15T06:58:25.959-07:00Prayer for the funeral<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >If you want to see God you have only to look at Jesus. Standing at the graveside of his friend, Jesus wept. He understands what it is to experience the pain of loss. But in the words of Bruce Springsteen, love is a power greater than death. I'd like to pray using some of the words and ideas from the 23rd psalm that we've just heard.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>To the Good Shepherd, you who promise to be close to the broken-hearted, I pray for the family here today for whom an irreplaceable person has gone.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>God of love, who knows what it is to grieve, grant peace in the midst of pain and comfort in a time of need.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>For Pop, when the emptiness becomes too hard to bear, I pray that you surround him with those who will support and encourage him, who will love him and hold him tight.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>For Mike, Lynne and Angie, who've borne a heavy burden over the last months, I pray that the Good Shepherd will lead you to still waters, to green pastures, where you can find space to mourn and to heal, to remember your mother as she used to be before she became so ill.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>For Becca, Dan, Ellie, Jo, Simon, Anna, Rob and Neil, I pray that, as you remember grandma, you find comfort in the knowledge that you meant everything to her. You and your children were her world.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>For the extended family, for all of us who had the privilege of knowing Ivy, I pray that we will find inspiration in her memory. <o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>Father God, I pray that your tender love will be a balm for spirits that are hurting so much now, that your compassion will bring about restoration of our souls.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i>And in the name of the Father who created us, and of his resurrected son, Jesus Christ who saves us, and of the Holy Spirit, who is with us and comforts us -<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>may the peace of the living God be upon us - each one.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Amen.</i></span></p><p class="MsoPlainText"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i><o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i> </i></span></o:p></p>Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-28942654541276144452011-06-08T00:53:00.000-07:002011-06-08T00:54:32.075-07:00One Night<p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Naomi</span></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Oh Elimelech, what have I done? I have sent the girl to … to prostitute herself. For what else is it if she lies at a man’s feet and asks to share his bed? What would Mahlon say if he were here? But he’s not; like you he’s dead and gone and that is why we have to resort to these measures. How could God take you all from us? Why, God, why did you do it? Was it something I did? So bad that you chose to punish me by taking my husband and my sons? Oh Elimelech, I wish you were here now. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But have I done wrong again? By telling Ruth to go to Boaz have I sinned again? But what was I to do? We have nothing. It is by Boaz’s generosity that we are managing to live. He is a good man, honest and true. Unlike your cousin, who, I know, is our closest kinsman-redeemer. I hear nothing but bad about him in the town. Would you have Ruth tied up in marriage with him? Pah. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >She will be all right with Boaz. She will be safe; he is not a man to take advantage of her. I would never forgive myself if I had sent her to your cousin and he had abused her. Every day I thank God for her and I am sorry it has come to this, to begging for help. But is it begging? We are only asking for what is lawful and expected. But it is much to ask of a man, to put his own estate at risk, his own name. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Yet Ruth is a prize worth having. She is a foreigner it’s true, and from Moab at that, but I have seen the way young men watch her as she walks down the road. She keeps her eyes averted and does nothing to draw attention to herself but still they watch and admire her. She will make him a good wife and bear him many children. If he will redeem our land.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Oh, Elimelech, have I done right?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%">Ruth</span></b><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I cannot sleep. How can I when I lie, unbeknownst to him, at the feet of a man? If I did not know that Naomi is a good woman I would question her instructions. But I love her as my own mother. She would not send me into wrongdoing. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But to dress in my best clothes, to wash and perfume my body and then to lie next to a man – who is little more than a stranger to me – is alien to me. It goes against everything I have ever learned. But I trust Naomi. She knows what she is doing.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >And Boaz is a good man. He has treated us well; he has been generous and kind. I need not fear him. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But yet, he is a man. Who is to say how a man may behave in any situation? He may wake and be angry. He may forbid me to glean in his fields. Or he may wake and not recognise me; he may think I am a prostitute for his pleasure. Oh Naomi, what have you sent me into? <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But Boaz is a good man. I know that. I have heard them in the town talk of him with respect and he has treated me well. I do not need to be afraid. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But he is a man of wealth and position. He can take his choice of women to have as a wife. Why would he agree to marry me, a Moabite, a stranger? Are the laws of this land so binding that he would be obliged? And if he married me because he was forced to, what kind of marriage would that be? A marriage without love would be hard to bear.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And yet if that is what I must do to provide a home and a future for us then so be it. I will do it for Naomi. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >And marriage to Boaz would not be too hard I am sure; he has shown himself to be gentle and honest. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I pray that morning comes soon and I will know what the future may hold. Mahlon, if you watch over me, keep close to me tonight.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:115%">Boaz</span></b><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >My God, she is so beautiful. When I woke to find her at my feet my heart raced. Would that morning come quickly so that I may know my fate. I cannot bear to see such a one as this married to that oaf of a cousin of mine; yet I must do what is right. I must choose my words carefully when I approach him.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >People have said to me in the past, ‘Boaz, isn’t it time you took a wife? Think of your family name.’ And I’m sure some of the same people will say the same thing to me if God grants my request and I marry this girl.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >So young, so loving, so good to Naomi. And so beautiful. What care I if she is from Moab? I have seen her work and humble herself – even to this, to lying at my feet and asking for marriage. How much must that have cost her? Her nobility of spirit becomes her well.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >No! I must restrain myself from reaching out to stroke her hair. I can smell her perfume and feel the warmth of her body. I hear her soft breathing. I long to hold her close. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But am I an old fool? Would I be so willing to be Naomi’s kinsman redeemer if her daughter-in-law were ugly and vain? Am I just another whose head has been turned by a pretty girl? I cannot fool myself that she comes to me out of love – except for Naomi. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But maybe she will grow to love me. She is the one I have been waiting for. I think I knew that from the first moment I saw her.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >God of my fathers, if this be your will let me be a good husband to Ruth and a good son-in-law to Naomi. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Morning cannot come soon enough.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-11681793051696772952011-04-22T05:50:00.000-07:002011-04-22T05:51:30.327-07:00The prayer of Judas<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%">Our Father in heaven<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%">Have mercy on me, have pity on a poor sinner, oh, God have mercy on me.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%">Hallowed be your name,<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%">You are the great and mighty God. You know what I’ve done, you know the secrets of my heart, God have mercy on me.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%">Your kingdom come,<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%">That was all I ever wanted. You know that, don’t you? This wasn’t about me. You know that, don’t you, God? You know it wasn’t about me – or the money. The money, the money, 30 miserable pieces of silver, 30 denari. I sold my soul for 30 denarii. God have mercy on me for no-one else will. But you, you know why I did it. Oh God, you know. Let me know that you understand. God have mercy on my miserable soul.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%">Your will be done that’s what I was doing, that’s what I thought I was doing. Your will, I thought I was doing your will, wasn’t I obeying your will, God? Even Christ, he said, it. He told me to. He said, ‘go and do it quickly.’ He told me to. I took that to be his approval. I thought … I thought. God you alone know what I thought. Your kingdom come. Your kingdom come. All I ever wanted was to see your kingdom come here on earth as it is in heaven. Christ was supposed to be the messiah, the promised one, the king who would lead us to freedom, who’d set us free from the cursed Roman occupation. That was all I wanted. I thought I could help. That’s all I was doing, helping. You believe that, don’t you? You know this wasn’t what I intended, what I wanted. I never wanted to ... to see this. I sold my soul. Oh God have mercy on my miserable soul. God have pity.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%">Give us today our daily bread. God forgive me I sat at the table with him. I ate the bread he gave me his body; I drank his blood. Oh God what have I done? And he knew, he knew all along. He knew everything I’d done, everything I was going to do. I could see it in his eyes. His sorrow, his pain, his … fear. God, I’d been with him through it all. I’d seen love in action and I betrayed him as he knew I would. As he knew I must. Why didn’t he stop me? Why didn’t he tell the others? Why didn’t he insist they took me prisoner to stop me doing what he knew I was going to do. What I had to do. That’s what he should have done … but he didn’t. He let me get on with it. He told me to go and do it. And the others, why didn’t they work it out? He couldn’t have made it clearer that I was the betrayer if he’d pointed to me. There was no doubt who he meant. Why didn’t they stop me? Didn’t they see? Were they too blind or stupid? Were their eyes covered? They could have stopped me. It wasn’t all my fault; they should have realised. He told them. Oh God have mercy on us.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%">Forgive us our trespasses,<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%">Oh, was there ever a greater trespass done? The worst of all, to betray the man who loved me. He did love me. I know it. I could see it in his eyes. Even at the end when I could hardly bear to look at his face, I could see the sorrow but I could see the love as well. He knew what I had to do. I was in the crowd as he passed. I was at the back amongst strangers. People who didn’t know me. Who didn’t point me out as the one who betrayed Jesus. But he saw me. He turned his head and looked straight at me. Just that one time he turned his head. He turned his head and looked at me. Looked at me through the crowd, through the heads and the faces he saw me. He knew I was there and he looked right at me. Oh God he looked at me. I tried to turn away. I didn’t want to look on his poor battered face. I didn’t want to see the hate and anger there. If I had been in his place I would have spat at me. But he didn’t. He looked at me and kept my gaze though I wanted to turn away. I wanted to run away and hide. But his face held no resentment, no anger, no hurt, just forgiveness. Forgiveness. As we also forgive those who have trespassed against us. God knows, I wanted to see forgiveness there. But I don’t believe what I saw. How could he forgive me? A wicked sinner.Oh God what have I done? Have mercy on me.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%">And what had he ever done to me? Nothing. Except love me. He loved me and that is how I repaid him. All he ever did was love me and respect me and value me. He trusted me. He put me in charge of the money. In charge of the money. He knew I was trustworthy. And I was. I was. I looked after it like it was my own. I was careful with it, yes, but what’s wrong with that? We needed money. We were going to fund a revolution. That took money. I was getting ready for that. That’s all I was doing. And I took no more than a fair pay for my work no matter what they say. That was all I did. I earned it. It was mine by right. It was only fair. My fair share. My fair share.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%">And lead us not into temptation,<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%">It was all moving too slowly. I just wanted to speed things up. Speed things up, get things going. He couldn’t see the mood of the people; I could. They were ready for revolution. He only had to say the word. They’d have taken up arms. I thought they would have. I was sure they would have. They cheered him as he entered the city. They loved him. The sight of Roman soldiers taking their hero prisoner would have been too much for them, I was sure of it. They’d rise up in his defence, to free him and then the land and our people. We’d have been free again as you God intended. I could see that. Freedom. Just within reach. That’s why I did it. That’s why I did it. It wasn’t for the money; it was for the cause. God, you know I’m telling the truth here. Listen to me. You know my motives. Listen to me. You know my thoughts, before a word leaves my mouth you know it. You know I only wanted good. I was impatient. The time was right. We had the people on our side. I thought we had the people on our side. God forgive them for their treachery. How could they turn against the man who’d raised their dead, healed their sick, fed their hunger? God, how could they do it? Oh God, how could I do it? Why did I do it? Why oh why did I do it? God in heaven have mercy on my soul, Have mercy on my soul. forgive me. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%">And deliver us from the evil one. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%">From the evil one deliver me, deliver me. From evil. From evil deliver me. From all that is in my head deliver me. From the evil that I have done deliver me. From the evil that has possessed my soul, deliver me. From the pain that is in my heart deliver me. Take these tears and wash me clean. Take these tear and wash me whiter than snow. Whiter than snow. Can I never be clean again? Will I carry this burden to my grave? Oh God answer me! Have you forsaken me too? I can’t carry this load. I can’t bear this burden any longer.<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:150%">My father in heaven, forgive me for what I have done, forgive me for what I am about to do. Have mercy on my soul.<o:p></o:p></p>Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-62670836794172175432011-04-20T02:03:00.000-07:002011-04-20T02:07:39.119-07:00Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness<div><span class="Apple-style-span">Good evening, sir. You look surprised. I can imagine I’m the last person you would have expected to see here. I’ll admit these aren’t the sort of surroundings in which we usually meet, but I’m not the woman you knew, not any more. Don’t look so worried, sit awhile with me and I’ll tell you my story. Come, you may as well sit, the teacher is resting and you’ll not get any closer to him in this crowd.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">It’s two months now since I first heard the teacher speak. He spoke of many things that day, some of what he said I didn’t understand, and I began to wonder if I’d made a mistake coming to listen to him but then he started to speak of hope. That drew my attention. You see, I didn’t have any hope, no hope for now, no hope for ever, but he offered it to me, in his gentle assuring voice. There were hundreds of people there that day and I was right at the back of the crowd but I swear he was looking at me as he spoke of love and forgiveness. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I can see you’re thinking ‘what right has she to expect forgiveness?’ I didn’t. When you’ve lived my sort of life you soon learn that forgiveness is not for you, and as for love, well. The men who bought my body for their pleasure despised me as much as they needed me. They thought more of their donkeys than they did of me. You ask why I did it then? For money, of course. But do you think I had a choice? Do you think that’s the life I would have chosen? Of course not. But I had no choice — I was damaged goods. If I wanted to survive I needed money although there’ve been plenty of times when death seemed preferable. You’re a wealthy man, sir, respected by your peers, they seek your opinions, can you imagine what it’s like to be looked down upon by everyone? From your friends in high places who treated me as a commodity to be used and forgotten until the next time my services were required, to your servants who spat on me and shunned me. When I was pushed over on the street, not one person came to my aid or asked if I was all right. I believed there was no-one in this world who cared one jot for me, no-one who thought that I had any value or worth, except the going rate for today. And even that got less with the years. All I had to look forward to was the day when I would discover that I was truly worthless and I would have to resort to begging on the streets.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">But the teacher told me something different. When he spoke of love, it was not just for everyone else but for me too. He promised me forgiveness. I could have sat and listened to him forever. But all too soon the darkness of the night came and the crowds began to disperse. I tried to make my way towards him but there were too many people all going the other way, and he had gone before I could reach him. I made up my mind then that some day I would tell him how his words had touched me, how I wanted to believe his promises. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Then a few weeks ago, a Pharisee came to our house to hire women to wait at table. He liked to hire the prettiest, the ones who would entertain his guests if they wanted. When I heard him say that the teacher would be at the banquet I quickly adjusted my dress, hurried over and gave the Pharisee my most alluring smile. He hired me on the spot. </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I don’t earn much but over the years I’ve been working, I’ve saved some money, not a lot but I hoped it would help me when the time came that men would no longer pay me for their pleasure. I kept my bag of coins hidden away in my room. But on the day of the banquet I took it all and bought a jar of the best perfumed oil I could afford. I hid it under the robe I wore that night. All evening I served food, poured wine, and tried to avoid the hands that reached out to grab and stroke me. I didn’t want the teacher to see me in that way. And all the while I looked for my chance. At last it arrived. The teacher was lying on a couch and amidst the bustle I crept up and knelt at his feet. He looked down at me and I wanted to say something, to tell him what his words had meant to me, but I couldn’t speak. His face was full of love but there was a deep sorrow there too, and I suddenly thought of my mother. The last time I saw her, when I was just a small child, before I was taken away. She’d looked at me with that same mixture of love and sorrow. I began to cry. The tears fell from my eyes and dropped onto his feet. I was embarrassed to think that the dirt from me was running over him. I undid the braid and let my hair fall forward so I could dry his feet. Then I remembered the oil I had brought. I broke the bottle and let the oil flow over his skin while I rubbed it in with my hair. By now, of course, the room had gone silent and everyone was watching. Some people were laughing; some were angry; one exclaimed at the waste. The Pharisee was the last one to notice. As soon as he saw me he came rushing over and grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me to my feet. ‘I’m sorry, master,’ he said, ‘this girl should not be bothering you. I’ll send her away.’ ‘No, Simon,’ the teacher said. ‘She may sit at my feet as long as she wants.’ ‘Do you not know what she is, master?’ the Pharisee said, and the teacher said, ‘I know everything about her.’ Then he turned to me and he said, and you’ll find this hard to believe, he said, ‘Your sins are forgiven, go in peace.’</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">My sins are forgiven. Can you understand what those words meant to me? The years of shame and guilt that he was taking away. Have you ever sinned? No, of course not, you’re an upright honest citizen, a pillar of the community, you wouldn’t possibly understand the joy of being washed clean when you’re so dirty that you can’t remember what it was like to be clean.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I’ve been travelling with the teacher and his friends ever since. His mother found me some better clothes to wear and they all share their food with me. It doesn’t please everyone though. You see the one leaning over, whispering in the teacher’s ear, that’s Peter, oh, you know him, well, he doesn’t like me. He never speaks to me if he can help it and when it’s his turn to share out the food I always get a smaller portion than everyone else. But it doesn’t matter. As long as I can be near the teacher and hear his words. And be there when he walks by and puts his hand under my chin and says, ‘Lift up your head and look at me,’ and I can feel his purifying love pouring straight into my heart.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">Look, the teacher is about to start again. And Peter has found a seat for you — well away from me. Go, listen, hear the teacher. Don’t look so worried, I won’t tell anyone where we met — I’ve already forgotten. Can you forget as easily?</span></div><div><br /></div>Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-88834035941254506622011-04-20T02:00:00.000-07:002011-04-20T02:07:06.166-07:00Blessed are the peacemakers<p class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="font-size:14.0pt;line-height:115%"><span class="Apple-style-span">Are you a peacemaker?<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">If you are a child of God is it your duty to be a peacemaker?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l1 level1 lfo1"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span class="Apple-style-span">a)<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> a) </span><!--[endif]-->Yes, of course it is.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l1 level1 lfo1"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span class="Apple-style-span">b)<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> b) </span><!--[endif]-->No, I don’t think that’s what it says.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l1 level1 lfo1"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span class="Apple-style-span">c)<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> c) </span><!--[endif]-->Maybe not obligatory but desirable.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Is peacemaking the same as peacekeeping?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l3 level1 lfo2"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span class="Apple-style-span">a)<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> a) </span><!--[endif]-->No.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l3 level1 lfo2"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span class="Apple-style-span">b)<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> b) </span><!--[endif]-->Yes, sort of.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l3 level1 lfo2"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span class="Apple-style-span">c)<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> c) </span><!--[endif]-->It can be.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Can you make peace with a gun in your hand?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l2 level1 lfo3"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span class="Apple-style-span">a)<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> a) </span><!--[endif]-->Never.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l2 level1 lfo3"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span class="Apple-style-span">b)<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> b) </span><!--[endif]-->Sometimes you have to.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l2 level1 lfo3"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span class="Apple-style-span">c)<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> c) </span><!--[endif]-->It’s probably not the best way.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span">Can you make peace for others if you yourself don’t have peace?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo4"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span class="Apple-style-span">a)<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> a) </span><!--[endif]-->No, if you don’t know peace yourself you can’t impose it on others.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo4"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span class="Apple-style-span">b)<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> b) </span><!--[endif]-->Yes, it’s easier to do it for others because you’re detached from the problem.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="text-indent:-18.0pt;mso-list:l0 level1 lfo4"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span class="Apple-style-span">c)<span style="font:7.0pt "Times New Roman""> c) </span><!--[endif]-->When I wear my mask I can do anything.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span">How did you do?</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>Mostly As: </b>you see things clearly and can go to the heart of a problem and help resolve it. You are a good peacemaker.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>Mostly Bs:</b> You can see both sides of the argument and can help the protagonists to see it from the other’s viewpoint. You are a good peacemaker.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span"><b>Mostly Cs:</b> You’re probably me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span"> </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-48088449257462150922011-04-13T01:50:00.001-07:002011-04-13T01:50:59.203-07:00Blessed are the pure in heart<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The heart surgeon was operating on an old woman. When he opened up her chest everyone in the theatre gasped as a bright light appeared to shine from her heart. The glow didn’t dim as he operated and was still there when he sewed her back up.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >A few days later he called in to the ward to see how she was progressing. He examined her and pronounced her to be doing well. ‘You should be able to go home in a day or two,’ he said. He was about to move on to the next patient when he stopped and sat down on the chair next to the woman’s bed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘We had a surprise when we cut you open,’ he said.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Oh dear,’ the old woman looked concerned.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Oh, it’s nothing to worry about,’ he reassured her, ‘but it was unusual. Your heart,’ he paused, trying to find the right words, ‘your heart appeared to be shining brightly.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Ah, I see,’ the old woman smiled. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘You don’t seem very surprised?’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Well, I’m a Christian, aren’t I?’ <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" > The surgeon laughed, ‘You must be a very good Christian then. I’ve never seen a glowing heart before.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘What? Never?’ The old woman sounded surprised.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The surgeon glanced at the nurse doing the rounds with him. He seemed reluctant to speak but finally he admitted, ‘I have seen it before on occasion but never shining as brightly as yours. Like I said, you must be a very good Christian.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Me? A good Christian. Oh, no, I’m a very bad Christian.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >He looked at the kindly old woman lying on the bed before him and said, ‘I find that hard to believe.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘In my life I’ve lied, I’ve gossiped, I’ve hurt people, I’ve made the wrong choices and done bad things. I’ve envied others and been jealous of what they have, I’ve cheated and been unwilling to forgive. Believe me, I’m a very bad Christian.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The surgeon laughed again. ‘If you say so but how do you explain the shining heart then?’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >‘Oh that’s not me, dear; that’s Jesus.’<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p>Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-71106416903548221572011-04-13T01:49:00.002-07:002011-04-13T01:50:20.889-07:00Blessed are the merciful<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >God, teach me mercy.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Show me others through your eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Help me to see beneath the mask, the words, and the actions.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Let me see the person you created from the outpouring love of your heart.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >God, teach me mercy.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Show me how to care, to forgive, to have patience, forbearance, tolerance, compassion.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >God, teach me mercy.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Let me be slow to judge.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Let me be slow to anger.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Help me to not seek vengeance.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >God, teach me mercy.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Help me to love my enemies.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Help me to acknowledge our differences without condemnation or compromise.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >God, teach me mercy.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >May I never forget the incredible mercy you have shown to me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >May I never take it for granted.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >May my soul overflow with praise and gratitude.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >May words of thankfulness and blessing be on my lips.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >May your mercy and grace sustain me all of my days.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >God, teach me mercy.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-68229901059271775182011-04-13T01:49:00.001-07:002011-04-13T01:49:39.604-07:00Blessed are the meek<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Gentle Jesus meek and mild<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But was it a meek man who threw the traders out of the temple?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Was it showing meekness to compare the Pharisees with whitewashed tombs full of dead men’s bones?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Was it demonstrating submissiveness to break the law by forgiving sins, gathering food on the Sabbath, or mingling with sinners?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Was it meek to fight injustice, to stand up for the poor and disenfranchised?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Yet. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >He was meek when they abused him, when they whipped him, when they led him to the cross. At this, the greatest injustice in history, the one man who had a right to say, ‘No, stop, this isn’t fair,’ took the punishment.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Not my will but yours<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >A rallying call to God’s children.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The meek fight battles for those who can’t <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >stand side by side with the outcast <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >wash the feet of the dirty<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >shed tears for the fatherless<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >defend the unlovely<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >care for the lost.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The meek are not downtrodden but strong<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Not submissive but clear of vision<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Not passive but passionate<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >The meek don’t take unfairness lying down<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >But take their stand with <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >Gentle Jesus meek and mild</span><o:p></o:p></p>Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5354403689126981842.post-61449339490746237092011-04-13T01:48:00.001-07:002011-04-13T01:48:58.737-07:00Blessed are those who mourn<p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size: 36pt; line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Blessed<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size: 36pt; line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >are those who<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size: 36pt; line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >mourn for they know <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size: 36pt; line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >what it is to love. They have trodden in the footsteps<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size: 36pt; line-height: 115%; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >of Christ.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" ><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>Liz Hindshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04646532093872561703noreply@blogger.com0