A Black Friday for Women

It's Black Friday. But while shops are full of bargain hunters and the introverts amongst us clog the online airwaves, the rest of the world are marking a day far more important than a good price for the latest X box.

Today, 25th November, is the UN's Elimination of Violence Against Women day.

It might come as a shock but the UN website tells us that across the globe, 1 in 3 women experience some form of violence in their lifetime. 

A recent report I read told me that 1 in 5 men in Cambodia admit to having raped a woman. (Cambodia Daily newspaper)

More than 700 million women alive today were married as children. Girls under the age of 18 who marry are far more likely to suffer violence from their husbands. (UN website)

30% of women in Bangladesh report that their first sexual experience was forced. (WHO)

As I read these statistics a few weeks ago for another piece I was writing, I put my head down in front of my laptop and wept. I wept for the women and girls who know no different. I wept at the injustice and I cried tears for the girls who have nobody else to weep for them. And these girls have haunted me ever since. 

These numbers not only alarm me, they make me angry. I find it difficult to understand how women and girls can still be treated as property to buy (not unlike the X boxes and televisions fought over today). I can't bear living in a world that causes so much pain.  Every time I read another statistic, I think of another girl facing yet more violence and injustice and I feel her fear, her pain and her helplessness.

I want to scoop all these women and girls up and give them the life they deserve. A life in which they are honoured, respected, cherished and loved. A life that offers them opportunities of education and careers. A life where they can be who they were made to be without simply having to survive the dangers around them. And, in my small

Worcestershire town, I feel helpless too.

Until I realise I am raising three young men who are world changers.

I'm not a mum of girls. I can't teach my daughters to fight for equality and justice for themselves.  But I can teach my sons.

As a mum of boys, I can teach them to treasure women and treat them with respect. 

I can teach my boys to honour the women and girls around them - giving them dignity and equal status.

I can't teach my daughters how to protect themselves, but I can teach my sons how to protect women. I can teach them to stand up for women when friends are making sexist, uncouth jokes. I can teach them to step in when they see a woman facing violence. 

I can teach them that women are more than their bodies. I can teach them to listen to women's ideas instead of guessing their bra sizes.

I can teach my boys that when we love someone, we don't hurt them. 

I can teach these young men, who will grow up to be husbands and fathers (I hope..) that sex isn't a weapon or a form of control.

I can teach them that, unlike the Black Friday deals of today which will be rubbish by next Christmas, women are to be loved and cherished for life and not simply thrown away when a newer model comes along. 

And so, I realise that there is so much I can do in my small world to eliminate violence for women. 

I'm determined because the consequences if I don't are too far reaching. My young men are reformers in a broken world and my job as their mum is to train them to be those who bring change. 

Black Friday will come and go. Violence against women is a reality every day for millions. And I'm committed to seeing this change. 

Deep Calls to Deep

We went to visit a huge waterfall in the summer holidays.  The exciting thing about it was that we could walk behind it. Standing in the spray, unable to hear each other speak over the top of the powerful roar was thrilling.  I never knew how majestic and awe-inspiring (and actually quite scary) a waterfall could be.  I had always thought about gentle trickles but this was like something I had never experienced.




This morning I was bringing my many friends before God who are seriously struggling.  Pain, heartbreak, grief, exhaustion, depression and anxiety are high up on the list.  I am finding life tough myself with so many burdens to carry and feeling the pain of others so intensely.  And then I read these words of David in Psalm 42:

"Deep calls to deep
    in the roar of your waterfalls;
all your waves and breakers
    have swept over me."

I've read them before but, if I'm honest, I always skipped over them.  I thought it was a bit weird to suddenly start writing about waterfalls.  This morning, however, was different.  I remembered the power of the waterfall we'd seen in the summer.  I remembered how it hit the water below with such a force that I was worried the boys would be swept away.  And I realised that it's with that power that God's goodness meets our depths.

It doesn't matter how deep we go.  It doesn't matter how low we sink.  The depth of God's riches, his faithfulness, his goodness, his grace, his sustaining power, his justice, his mercy, his love, his constancy is flooding down to meet the depth of our pain, our sorrow, our exhaustion, our confusion and our overwhelming brokenness.  He roars with power as his love and gentleness sweep over us.

His deep goodness calls to my deep pain.

Deep calls to deep.

Can you hear the roar of the waterfall?

Wasting My Life?

I have some incredible friends.  They are teachers, nurses, doctors, lawyers, psychologists and other superhero type careers.  They amaze me with the way they manage to have such polite, fun children, clean houses AND demanding jobs.  I try my best to celebrate their successes with them and support them with life is tough.  I'm not jealous in any way.

BUT

Recently I have noticed Comparison tapping me on the shoulder more and more often.  While my awesome friends are putting on their capes and teaching classes of 30 noisy children, treating cancer patients, completing intelligent sounding training courses and racing around with their important busy lives, I am cleaning bathrooms, cooking meals, making myself available to our lodger and boys, hoovering, taking in odd pieces of writing and other such mundane tasks.

Comparison whispers in my ear, "Look at all of them!  They are doing important things.  You're not." Comparison tells me I should be doing more, earning more, training more and that unless I do, I am not worth much in our society.  I am purpose-less and unfulfilled.  I have no real ambition and am wasting my life.

Comparison doesn't realise that this is all lies.

This morning, I read the truth in 1 Peter 1 (paraphrase mine):

"You were chosen.... to be obedient to Jesus Christ."

Right there is my purpose.  Obedience.  If Jesus had asked me to be a teacher, a doctor or a lawyer, I would have said yes.  But he hasn't.  He's asked me to stay in my home pouring myself out over and over again to the people who he's given me to love.  This includes my boys but is also our lodgers who need to know the consistency and faithfulness of a love that won't give up on them.

No ambition?  I have a ton of the stuff.  My ambition is to see the people I love, who come to us so damaged they are almost beyond repair, find total and utter freedom.  I want to see them throw their heads back and laugh extravagantly.  I want to see them finding independence and a new life for themselves.  I want them to know how precious they are.  I want to see them find love for themselves and one day marriage and a family.  I want them to see the beauty in them that others see.  I want them to feel proud of who they are.  I want them to know they are worth an education.  I want to see in them an audacity that can only be found in those who have been through hell and come out the other side.  If that's not ambition, I don't know what is.

And so, Comparison, my friends are being obedient to Jesus by doing their incredible jobs whilst my purpose is obedience through staying home.  The races marked out for us are different ones.  As boring as it sounds (and, like all jobs, it IS pretty dull some days), I wouldn't give up what I am doing for anything else.

If I'm wasting my life on obedience and love, I'm happy to go with that one.  After all, that's what Jesus did.

Why We Haven't Bought A New Dishwasher

Several weeks ago our dishwasher died. Full of greasy bacon pans and plates from a Saturday morning men's prayer breakfast, it just gave up. I can understand this. I would've given up too. My heart sank. Yet another expense to pay out. It hadn't even occurred to me that washing up longer term might be an option. 

I spent the whole weekend washing up. This made me feel very cross. I had now become the dishwasher. 

So, I devised a rota. Everyone is on the rota at least twice - once for washing and once for drying. And, guess what? We've actually started to quite like this arrangement. 

Here's what we've learnt:

1. As the boys have grown older, they have started to slope off after mealtimes and we don't see them. If they're on the washing up rota, they have to hang around even longer than the meal which makes family time last longer.

2. Washing and drying up together gives us chance to chat. Time together is becoming more rare now they want to be with their mates instead of us boring and embarrassing parents, but this time working together gives a precious opportunity for one to one talking. Oh the revelations we've discovered in the last few weeks....!

3. Drying up whilst a particular child is washing gives us an excellent (and breath-holdingly uncomfortable) chance to learn patience as they leave the hot water running and squeeze half the bottle of washing up liquid into one plate. 

4. Our boys had no idea how to wash up. Seriously. I was shocked. They can do their own laundry, clean toilets, empty bins, cook meals and hoover but they couldn't wash up!  It was a sharp learning curve. 

5. My kitchen actually looks tidier. Instead of everything piling up ready for the dishwasher, it's washed, dried and put away and it leaves the kitchen clean.

6. It doesn't take as long as I expected. Ten minutes max (unless Max is washing up, and then it's slightly longer due to the   extra time added when he is surprised each time he is told he has to wash everything and 'no, you haven't finished yet'.).

7.  Glasses are really quite breakable in the slippery soaped-up but enthusiastic hands of an eight year old. 

8. Tea-towel whip fights can leave quite nasty marks.  The wetter the tea-towel, the redder the mark. Bet you didn't know that.

And so, we might not actually go back to having a dishwasher.  Rather than being another expense to pay, we've actually gained masses.

Will we ever have a dishwasher again?  Ask me in another few months... the novelty may have worn off and we may have no glasses left...

Say 'No' to Squandering (For my teenage friends)

Since joining some social media sites, I have had a growing horror in my insides at the photos that are posted online and over the last few weeks this has developed into a letter to not only my incredible and beautiful teenage friends but to a whole generation who holds no value for purity and who are being failed by adults who have not explained there is always an option to say 'no'. 

So, here's the letter:

To My Teenage Friends,

Imagine the scene.

You have a shiny new phone – the latest upgrade.  It’s your constant communication tool with friends and family.  There is no other way to be contacted and all your important information is stored in your phone.  Not to mention all your music.  It’s precious, so you treat it with care.  If you were to go to the London underground where there are big signs everywhere saying ‘Pick pockets in operation’ you would keep your phone safe.  You would not let a corner of your phone peek out of your bag, just to tempt the thieves.  You wouldn’t flash it around so they know you’ve got it.  Of course you wouldn’t!

Your virginity and purity is the same.  Except that phones are replaceable and your virginity is not.  Once it’s gone, it is gone forever. There are thieves in operation all around the world – in our nation and other nations.  Don’t throw this away when, for other women it is being violently stolen day after day and sometimes hour after hour. 

How do we know it is so precious?  Sit in a room with one of these women, as I have, and hear her sobbing as she speaks of her pain at this precious, most intimate part of her being stolen.  If it was easy to throw away, like an old crisp packet at the bottom of our handbags, then there would be no heartache.  There would be no need to be afraid of men.  There would be no need to feel anxious about going out of the house in case it happens again. You would not feel like a captive to your own past.  Your life would not be affected in any way by throwing away an old, useless object.

But this? 

This is to be prized.  This is to be kept sacred.  This is to be cherished and treasured, not wasted in the pursuit of ‘fitting in’ or wanting to grow up. 

The thieves are prowling, ready to steal your purity.  Don’t give them a sneak peek by posting naked selfies online.  Don’t give yourself away just for a laugh.  Don’t seek value in what others say about you.  You are worth more than that.  The women who’ve had their purity stolen know all about worth.  They feel worthless now that it’s been taken.  You can say no, they couldn’t.  You have a choice, they didn’t.

Value yourself.  Value your virginity.  Keep it safe as your treasure until it's the right time to give away to someone who adores you for the incredible person you are.  Stop squandering yourself.  You are loved.  Your life has value.  You are beautiful and courageous and clever.  There is more to you than pouting selfies.  There is more, so much more, to your life.  You are free to choose.

Say no to squandering. 

Say yes to freedom.

Loving children with holes in their buckets - Guest Post

My big sister is one of my real life heroes.  She is far more patient than me, far more kind and she is one of 'those' mums with a tidy house  calming environment.  She is mum to two boys, adopted into our extended family as babies and loved as our own.  As a family they have been on a journey over the last few years and her texts never fail to leave me open mouthed and speechless at her enduring, committed, compassionate love for her boys.  Today she has written a guest post which I know you will love as much as I do, so sit down, open your hearts and listen to her passionate wisdom.

We all know the song…

                There’s a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza,

                There’s a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, a hole.

                Then mend it dear Henry, dear Henry, dear Henry,

                Then mend it dear Henry, dear Henry, mend it.

                With what shall I mend it dear……… ?

    and so on!

Liza and Henry then go through a whole set of solutions only to find that the water still seeps through the holes.  In the end, the only answer is to buy a nice, shiny, new bucket.

Imagine that we have an invisible bucket above our heads.  Every time something goes well - a kind word spoken to us, a helping hand, something that makes us smile - our bucket, drip by drip, fills up. But when things go wrong - we have a bad day, we have an argument or cross words with someone we love - the buckets tips up and water drips out, leaving us with less. The important thing is to keep our bucket topped up, so we don’t run dry. Topping up our buckets can also happen when we show love and care to others around us. It is mutually beneficial. We top up others and that tops us up too. God enriches and satisfies us and others by this process.

However, imagine someone with a rusty, dented and full of holes bucket above their head.  No matter how much we love them by pouring praise and encouragement on them, protecting them, giving them security, having fun and laughing and giving endless amounts of time to them it all leaks through the holes instead of filling up their bucket.  It is an endless cycle that never stops. They are constantly running down to empty and always needing more. Whatever is poured in is never enough.

There are precious children who have these leaky buckets, simply because they were carried in their mother’s womb and born into a situation and environment that was beyond their control. A hostile, chaotic and sometimes dangerous place. They are born needing to fight or fly. It is in their hard wiring. They are born needing to be nurtured and loved but are removed from every familiar sight, sound, smell, touch and taste that they have known (albeit necessary for their survival and safety). They are separated and the bond is broken.  They feel abandoned. The holes were already forming in their bucket before they were born, whilst they were developing and growing. They are damaged and now abandoned. They are placed in an alien environment and fostered or adopted into another family.

As they grow, they are not aware of why they find things so hard, why life is challenging and difficult and why they feel different. They don’t understand why they can’t trust and feel safe even with the ones they love. They know about their adoption and history and why it has happened  but they have no conscious memory of what happened to them; only the deep, gut wrenching shame, pain and confusion that developed deep inside their baby brain and innermost being. All the good and positive love that is lavished and poured into them disappears through the holes and drains away. There is a residue that sticks to the side of the bucket. They know they are in a family who love them - their head knows this but their heart is unable to accept it.

Living with children whose buckets are full of holes is tough. They require unconditional and sacrificial love. Giving up everything for them and not expecting much in return. Knowing that the process will need to be repeated day after day.  It’s heart breaking, gut wrenching, painful to watch them.  It stirs up anger as to why this should have happened to them. We feel disappointment, despair and utter sadness to witness their pain and hurt. To put yourself in their shoes even for a moment is desperately painful  but knowing that they live and feel like that all the time, day and night, is truly mind boggling. Scared, anxious, confused, unsafe, unwanted, carrying huge fears, angry, suicidal, unvalued, insecure, shameful and sad.

BUT…… What a great word! There’s so much more that can come next. There is hope….

We have a super abundant Father God who is Father to the fatherless, who sets the lonely in families, whose idea of adoption into his family as sons and daughters gives us a picture of God’s heart. Adoption is a good thing! He will bind up the broken hearted, bring healing of the past, repair and renew and give a hope and a future. God is able to do MORE than we can ask or imagine. God’s story is already written.  He is the author and perfector. God’s plans are secure and steadfast. No-ones birth is an accident or a mistake. Even with the most difficult start, God’s plan was there. He knew, He works all things together for good. God is in the business of supplying wonderful, shiny, new buckets from his heavenly store. Buckets with no holes where truth, joy and peace cannot run out. Buckets that can be refilled without leaking. Buckets that are resilient enough to cope with life’s challenges. Buckets that can be topped up again and again. Full buckets that allow the person to be free to top up other’s buckets.

So, we look forward to the day when those buckets are complete.  Its drawing nearer and nearer. We see so many glimmers of hope, healing, restoration and brand new shiny buckets.

We don’t do this in our own strength - oh no!! Our strength would have run out a very long time ago. No, we do it in God’s strength, where all things are possible.

2 Corinthians 12:9-10

My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. Therefore I boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weakness, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

He is more than enough.

Reformer

It was tucked away in the second hand shop with a pile of junk precariously balanced on the top. Nobody would have noticed it.  Nothing special, it reminded me of my Nana's flat - musty smelling and covered in dust.

But I saw it.  Beneath the brown veneer, I saw purpose.  I saw beauty and I saw something I needed.  So, I surprised the staff by asking for it to be dug out from underneath the pile, obviously not been moved for a long time.  And they very kindly deposited it into my car.

You see, I needed a particular sized cabinet for our television.  I wanted to create something that would be my 'statement of intent' for the way I wanted our new lounge decorated.  And I saw huge potential in this hidden gem.

Taking it home, I sanded it down, ripping off the veneer and taking it back to the bare wood.  Painting it again, I remembered my friend's words to me a few weeks ago.  Words I had doubted in the weeks following our mugs of camping coffee.

"You are a reformer." 

And as I painted over the bare wood, breathing life into dry bones, I realised that those words are true.

I AM a reformer.  I see things that others don't see, and I have chosen to spend my life bringing those things into being.

My heart has been wrecked for those who are invisible to others, cowering under the pile of their shame, hoping nobody sees them.  My prayers have become unutterable groans for those who, stripped back to nothing but their pain, are ignored by the rest of the world - a world who wants shiney and new.  I find myself sobbing at the extent of the death-stories that I read and hear. I weep in Nandos with my friend telling me about Yazidi women pleading to be killed because of the shame they feel. I weep in the local cafe thinking about my new friend so devastated by abuse.  I weep for terrorists and the terrorised.  I weep for the abused and the abusers.  And I have to pull over in the car because I can't see where I'm going anymore, my tears have become so violent and my stomach feels as though I have been kicked hard.

But where others see death and shame, I see hope and beauty.  When I feel the deep pain and mourning belonging to someone else, I also see the bright future that could be ahead of them.  When I hear about sadness that never goes away, I see a deep well of joy that can never be quenched.  When I see the pile of those dry bones, so strangely written about by the prophet Ezekiel, I see life and action.  When I see illness, I see healing.  Where others see something dirty which shouldn't be touched, I see treasure.  When I hear about people locked in their own prison, I see freedom flinging wide those prison doors.  When I listen to my friends' stories that cause me to so weep, I know without a doubt that there is hope.

So, I make my choices.

I choose to dig out the potential, the beauty, the joy, the purpose and see lives reformed.

I choose to treat the 'nothing special' like royalty.

I choose to take the pain I so violently feel and turn it into action.

I choose to speak life and truth over dry bones.

I choose to look for hope.

I choose to find the treasure.

I choose to do all I can to change the world.

I choose to be a reformer,

Consumed?

I try hard not to live with regrets.  I don't allow myself to regret, for example, the tough years of post-natal depression and the way I parented during that time.  I don't allow myself to wallow in the 'what ifs' of decisions we have made about where to live or jobs to take.

But I do sometimes wish things had been different.  I do sometimes live with sadness for the way some things have turned out.

I feel sad about the ones I love who are hurting.
I feel sad about the outcomes of choices made by those who are precious to me.
I feel sad when I see the consequences of those choices.
I feel sad when I realise that I can only control myself and I can't control others.
I feel sad when I read the news on my phone (thankfully I don't have to watch it on TV) and there is yet more violence, hatred and death.
I feel sad when my beautiful friend, living with the horrors of war, tells me stories that are almost too painful to hear and cause me to sob in the middle of Nandos.
I feel sad when I think about the lives of millions turning into ashes because of an evil system of slavery which causes fear at best and destroys at its worst.

Sometimes this sadness threatens to overwhelm.  I find it hard to focus on the boys playing in the sunshine.  I can't smile when they bring me picked daisies in a plastic cup of water. I linger just a little bit too long when they hug me and have tears in my eyes as they pull away.  I function on automatic because that's the only way to get through.

And then I remember this.

"My soul is downcast within me.
Yet this I call to mind, and therefore I have hope.

Because of the Lord's great love, we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning:
great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, 'The Lord is my portion;
Therefore I will wait for him'."

(Lamentations 3:23)

So, I google what 'consumed' means and I find this:

consume

kənˈsjuːm/

verb

past tense: consumed; past participle: consumed

1. 1.

   eat, drink, or ingest (food or drink).

   "people consume a good deal of sugar in drinks"

   synonyms:

   eat, eat up, devour, ingest, swallow, gobble, gobble up, wolf down, gorge oneself on, feast on; More

   • (of a fire) completely destroy.

     "the fire spread rapidly, consuming many homes"

     synonyms:

     destroy, demolish, lay waste, wipe out, annihilate, devastate; More

   • use up (a resource).

     "this process consumes enormous amounts of energy"

     synonyms:

     use, use up, utilize, expend; More

2. 2.

   buy (goods or services).

   "accounting provides measures of the economic goods and services consumed"
3. 3.

   (of a feeling) completely fill the mind of (someone).

   "Carolyn was consumed with guilt"

   synonyms:

   absorb, preoccupy, engross; More

Origin

And I speak this truth to myself.

I am sad, but I am not devoured by sadness.

I feel sadness which threatens to overwhelm, but I am not completely destroyed by it.

My sadness does not 'altogether take up' my life.  It does not need to fill my mind totally.

I may feel 'spent' and 'used up' but God has promised to be my enough so it doesn't matter if I use up all my resources - His are utterly limitless.

When I begin to wallow, he whispers his I'm-not-going-to-let-you-down-promises into my ear and I begin to take tentative steps towards hope.

My heart might be hurting, but his compassions never stop loving, never stop feeling the hurts and never stop pouring out mercy.  

I am not consumed.

So instead of having my mind blown by the sadness, I choose to have it blown by the truth.  
A truth which sets me free, every single time.

Better Is One Day....

There are many times as a mum when I would rather be somewhere else. 

When a toddler is screaming in the middle of the supermarket, for example. 

Or perhaps when the teacher calls 'Can I have a word?' at home-time and points in your direction. 

Or when everyone wants to watch yet another action film full of banging and shooting.

Or when you can't even lock yourself in the bathroom without a little hand working its way underneath the door.

Or when the arguments and bickering never seem to stop.

Or when you find yourself playing musical beds in the middle of the night (often with vomit involved).

Sometimes, anywhere is better than the present. 

And over the years I have used this verse as mantra to get me through the difficult days and the long nights:

"Better is one day in your courts than a thousand elsewhere." Psalm 84 v 10

I have held on to the hope-filled promise that being in God's presence is always better.  In those moments of desperation when I have wanted to run away (ok, I have actually escaped several times only to realise that I'd run from the ones who loved me), I have clung on tightly to the promise of one day being in a place where there are no tears or pain.  When depression has threatened to pull me beneath swirling waters, this verse has been my last gulp of air. 

And then last week, I lay on a beautiful beach under blue skies having slept well and enjoyed a lazy morning and I realised this was what I had been longing for.  It was peaceful (when I blocked out the noise of the arguments over SAND) and I felt happy.

 

And I suddenly became aware that even my best, most joy-filled, peaceful and perfect moments do not even compare to being in the presence of God.  It eclipses them every single time. 

Perhaps this is not a shocker of a revelation to you.  Perhaps this has always been obvious.  But for me, realising the depth of God's goodness, grace and love for me in allowing me to hang out with him was a game-changer. 

I don't just need to cling to this verse on dark days.  It's not just a promise for better days to come, it's an invitation for the now.  It's an invitation to do life, every-day-good-and-bad-life, in God's presence.  It's knowing that everything I do now, comes out of being in the refreshing courts of God.  It's being replenished so that I can keep giving.  I don't have to 'hang on in there' for God's presence.  Jesus made a way for me to walk straight in - the doors are opened and there are welcome signs everywhere.

I'm heading straight through that open door.  Want to join me?

When giving seems impossible....

A few weeks ago I found myself visiting the '2pm club' at the local Baptist church.  Members of this club are well beyond retirement age and they enjoy a speaker, a cuppa and a cake.  I was asked to speak about our house and human trafficking.  Not quite knowing how to pitch my talk, I explained what we are doing and why it is so important.  I was pleased to have engaged them (only one person fell asleep).  During the question time at the end, one lady spoke up and told me she had been thinking of a story in the Old Testament that she thought was relevant for us.

Elijah, one of the prophets of Israel and seemingly an all round nutcase, visited a very poor widow.  He asked her for something to eat.

"I haven't got anything left," she replied.  "I'm just making one more meal for myself and my son before we starve."

"Give me what you have," Elijah promised, "and you will never run out again."

And guess what?  She gave Elijah her very last meal.  This hungry widow who felt death by starvation tapping her on the shoulder.  She just gave. 

And she never ran out.  The flour and the jar of oil always had more in them.

At the time I was feeling emotionally dry.  I felt like I had nothing left to give.  I thought it an encouragement to keep going.  Little did I know what was really meant by it...

The very next day, looking at our finances, Jared explained to me that we wouldn't be able to give our usual monthly amount because by doing so we would have nothing left two weeks into the month.  Nothing to live on to feed our constantly hungry boys or to pay the bills.  We had also paid out a huge amount of money to fix the many leaks in the house over the last few months.  We were at the very end in every possible way.  I remembered the story of the widow and, after thinking and praying it through, we decided to give anyway and trust God to provide for us to scrape through to the end of the month. 

And for two weeks the anxiety built.  I tried not to panic.  Each bill we paid brought us closer to zero.  So, we told our boys and we stood together in the kitchen, reminding God of his promises to provide for us.  I think at that point the boys had more faith than me.

Two days later, we had a deposit in our bank account of £50. 
Three days later, we had a deposit in our bank account of £250. 
Six days later, we came downstairs in the morning to find an envelope filled with £300 on our doormat.
Ten days later, we had a payment for £368.
Eleven days later, we had a knock at the door at breakfast and someone handing us £250 and then a deposit of £450 in our bank account later that day.

This is more than scraping through!

Every single time, we have thanked our faithful God and asked him to bless those who have given to us.  He has given back to us more than six times the amount we gave at the beginning of the month.  It has truly been an awesome rollercoaster of trust.  Not only has he provided for us, but he is depositing enormous faith in the hearts of my boys.  Their foundations will not be shaken for they have seen with their very own eyes the real answers to their prayers.

Faith exists in the realms of the impossible and we are certainly living in those realms.  There is nothing in what we are doing with our home that we can do by relying on our own strength or abilities.  It is impossible but we choose to live this way because we serve a God for whom nothing is impossible.  And it's a pretty exciting way to live too!

The '2pm club' gave me far more than I gave to them on that chilly Wednesday afternoon a few weeks ago.  And I am more grateful than the words my fingers can type.

And our story continues....

The View From Here (Teenage Boy Tales)

If I had a sticker chart, I should deserve a little prize by now.  Just to keep me going.  I have now been the parent of a teenage boy for 18 months.  Yes, feel free to applaud.  It's a definite achievement.

It's also been one steep, long upward climb of a learning curve (and I can't even see the top yet).  But I thought I'd share the view with you, so these are some of the things I have learnt in my mothering a teenage boy journey so far.

1.  One day, you will walk into their bedroom and you will find yourself gagging on the smell.  Even a clean boy, it seems, can create this stench.  With window firmly shut and curtains closed, the whiff has plenty of time to become a stuffy, 'hold-your-breath-or-you-will-pass-out' stink, occasionally masked by the over the top spraying of Lynx.  I have no idea where this smell comes from, but it certainly lingers. 

2.  It's not ok to use the same jargon as your teenage son.  Ever.  So, you will find yourself using it more and more just to have a little giggle with yourself.  I know, right.  I'm so down with the kids blud.

3.  As his crackly voice wavers up and down, you must resist the temptation to copy.  And do not, under any circumstances, encourage his younger brothers to copy too.  This can have devastating consequences. 

4.  Talking of his voice, here's a small note (can't resist) of interest.  The deeper it becomes, the less able he seems to be of controlling his volume.  You thought babies were loud?  Expect booming and you won't be disappointed.

5.  Food.  Make sure your cupboards do not become like Old Mother Hubbard's.  A hungry teenage boy is a grumpy one.  And he is hungry every five minutes or so.

6.  You will long for the days of the 7pm bedtime.  Evenings are no longer your own.  The remote control is no longer your own.  Peace and quiet is no longer your own.  Not in the evenings anyway.  That big booming voice will reverberate around the house for HOURS until you plead with him to put away his phone, his tablet, his homework, his music and his x-box (all at the same time - who said men can't multi-task?) and go to bed.  (Actually its not this bad in my house, but I shudder at the thought of how it would be if we had no boundaries).

7.  Grunts and noises.  There will be times when you have concerns that your boy is losing his ability to speak.  Your once little chatterbox of a boy will sometimes be totally unable to speak in human language.  You need to be able to interpret the grunts.  Failing that, ask him to speak properly.  (I let the gruffalo noises go unchallenged in the mornings but later on in the day he needs to use the language we all understand.)

8.  He actually becomes quite useful.  In physical terms, he can now do lots of things that an adult can do.  So, when heavy baskets of wood need collecting in or bathrooms need cleaning or little brothers need looking after, you have another pair of hands.  Sometimes that pair of hands might need a small amount of encouragement, but the basics are there and ready to be manipulated helpful.

9.  He is fun to be around.  The jokes and banter are actually enjoyable.  He is good company and you can laugh together about the same jokes rather than pretending you find armpit farts hilarious. (Anyone else have to do that?  Or just me?)

10.  He still needs a mum.  There may be lots of friends and even girls to contend with, but at the end of each day (or even during the day) he needs to be able to snuggle up to his mum.  If you keep the physical affection going and don't let them stop (see my previous post on the wisdom of friends for this http://letboysbeboys2.blogspot.co.uk/2013/08/the-wisdom-of-friends.html), you will find that the hugs become even more precious.  And when you are having a bad day and they pick just the right time to give you a hug and say 'its going to be ok mum'?  That is the absolute best.

One day, when I have survived three teenage boys, I may be able to dole out wisdom.  Until then, I just have to laugh.

Sackcloth and ashes for lent?

It's all about the 'giving up'. People are giving up chocolate, social media, sugar and anything else they think is a bad addition to their lives.  

I've always struggled a bit with lent. Apart from the fact that giving up chocolate would not work for me (or my family), I've always wondered just what the point of it is. I know it's about stripping back and preparing our hearts for Easter. It's about making room and repenting.

But I wonder why I need to do this only in the 40 days run up to Easter. My heart is pretty ugly most of the year round. And I am constantly in need of God's mercy. It all seems a bit 'woe is me' and in our individualistic society it feels like we are being told that if we give up Facebook for 40 days then God can forgive us.  Maybe it's the new sackcloth and ashes.

Surely that defeats the whole point of Easter.  The truth is that we can't do anything to earn God's forgiveness. Even giving up sugar - and that is hard! Jesus died so WE DON'T HAVE TO. There is nothing we can give up for lent that will change this.

And so as I ponder lent this year, my heart is drawn to the type of fasting that God himself recommends. You'll find it in Isaiah 58. This kind of fasting isn't centred on one person giving stuff up. This kind of fasting requires action on our parts to think about the world around us. It involves a heart response that leads us to actively loving those around us. And,

amazingly, it comes with awesome promises.

So, this lent I'm going to enjoy my chocolate knowing that God doesn't mind. He's more interested in my heart.

Dog Attack!

Apologies to all you dog lovers out there, but I am not one of you.  I do not like dogs and I find the fascination with them completely unfathomable.  I'm also a teensie bit scared.

Walking to school a few weeks ago I was leapt upon and viciously attacked by a fearsome wolf.  Ok, it was an Alsatian who jumped at me and bit my coat.  Had I not used my well practised super-ninja-mother-of-boys-moves, those sharp teeth would have sunk their way into my leg.  I was shaken up and arrived home to have a good sob on Toby's shoulders.  (It was one of those rare moments when you see a glimpse of the man they are becoming.  It was a good glimpse.)

Time travel forwards a few weeks (you mean you don't time travel?) and you will find a puffed out me half running behind Jonah on his new bike.  Just beyond us on our path is another Alsatian.  

Jonah looks at me as I wonder how to navigate this drooling obstacle.  I decide to be brave and keep walking.

But my sweet and thoughtful boy surprises me by climbing off his bike and pushing it so that he is between me and the dog.

"I'm protecting you, Mum." He explains as my heart melts just a little bit more.

"Well thank you," I reply. "But really I should be protecting you."

"Oh no," he smiles at me, "if the dog is going to bite someone's leg off then I would rather it was mine than yours."

"I don't think it is going to bite anyone's leg off, but if it does then really I would rather it was mine." I know I'm right - that's what a good mother should do.

"Yes but if your leg is bitten off then you won't be able to cook my tea or make me snacks or do my washing or any of the other jobs you do."

Ah.  Now we get to the crux of the matter.  He wasn't protecting me, after all!  

Eight year old boy logic at it's very best.

And this, dear readers, is one of the many reasons I love boys.

Food and Friends - A Story of Hope

This sign hangs over our new (ok, we've been here 6 months but it's still new to us) dining room.

And last night the room was full of 15 people, eating and celebrating.  Friends who have known each other for years and some brand new ones too.  

We had a reason to celebrate too (although this isn't always necessary, as those of you who have been in my kitchen when one of my 'tunes' comes on will know).  Last night we were celebrating the journey of two friends who have been on an incredible journey of finding beauty in ashes and hope in the midst of despair.  We'll call my friends Beauty and The Chef.  Oh yes, food is important!  

And to tell their story, I need to start with a confession of my own.  I used to be scared of Beauty and The Chef.  I often saw them walking to school at the same time as me.  Their children were in the same school as mine.  I didn't know them.  I didn't know how thoughtful, generous and downright fun they were.  So I was scared.  Too scared to even say hello.

But one day they arrived with their five children at our church gathering, having been invited by someone else.  And slowly but surely I overcame my fear and got to know them.  What a treat I had been missing!

This last year has been a tough one for our friends.  Drugs, fear, financial difficulties and anxiety have threatened to overcome them.  Last August, after the drugs had attempted one last kick of death, The Chef made the incredibly brave decision to go into rehab.  It would mean leaving Beauty and all the children for up to one year,  sometimes with no contact at all.  It was a now or never moment and I had enormous admiration for them both at the courage they displayed.  

Five months later, The Chef is not only drug free but is also off all his medication.  Beauty has had her own triumphs in single handedly parenting the children.  And we have watched them blossom.  We have witnessed their love for one another grow and have stood to the side cheering them on as they have claimed each small victory.  We have seen their hearts soften and watched God bring immeasurable healing as he has gently loved them, spoken to them and treasured them.  We have watched their eyes being opened to how awesome their Father God really is.  We have seen them become part of our family.  And we will continue to walk with them as they carry on the long road ahead.  

The Chef now comes home at weekends and sometimes even stays overnight.  So, last night, we filled our home with people who love Beauty and The Chef.  We ate  We laughed.  We told stories.  We celebrated.

And I looked around, at my dining room full of friends and food, standing in awe of our God who truly redeems situations, transforms lives and gives beauty instead of ashes.  Beauty and The Chef are trophies of God's grace and the privilege was all ours to host a celebration of changed hearts and lives.

Hope House was full to the brim of hope.  And it gave me shivers for what is to come.

The Nitty Gritty of Faith

I'm not a big fan of the New Year celebrations.  Despite the never ending unknowns in our family life and the resulting excitement when the next step is (finally) made clear, I happen to dislike not knowing what is going to happen next.  I'm a planner and when I don't know the plan it makes me feel uncomfortable which occasionally edges it's way into panic.  This year the unanswered questions (these are my worst kind of 'unknowns' - the ones where you know there has to be an answer but you have no idea what it will be) have dragged at my heels, threatening to floor me.

What will happen to my job once the funding runs out in March? 

How will I find a new job which fits in with our family?

Am I even meant to find a new job or am I supposed to be more available for other things?

How are we going to afford to fix the many things that need fixing in this house?

What have we let ourselves in for with this house?

How are we going to find a model that works and is replicable with all that we want to do in this house?

How on earth did we think this was going to actually work with a family to think about?

How will we even pay the mortgage if I don't have a job?

When are we going to have our first lodger?

How will our family adjust to said lodger?

Have we made a massive mistake?

You see.  My mind is unkind to me sometimes.  Especially in the middle of the night.

But last night, I woke up and looked at my clock.  The time was 3:33am.  And in our house, we have a saying about those numbers.  '333 is God's phone number' because in Jeremiah 33:3 it says this:

Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know.

And there are so many things I do not know.  I have no answers.  But I used that phone number in the middle of the night and I called out to the One who has all the answers.  He knows all the things I don't know.

This is where faith gets down and dirty.  It's easy to have faith when everything drops in your lap.  It's easy to believe when you can see how it's all going to pan out.  But what about when you can't see and you don't know the answers or even have the resources?  That's the nitty gritty of faith.  A faith which can't see but trusts the One who can.  A faith that battles to keep it's gaze on the One who holds the resources in his hands instead of on the water leaking through the ceiling.  A faith that gives the little of what we have and trusts for it to be multiplied.  

The questions aren't silenced.  The nights are still the battleground of anxiety.  The unknowns are still looming somewhere ahead.  But faith chooses to keep walking forwards when all I can see is fog.  Faith chooses to remember all that has gone before.  Faith chooses to fight the anxiety with truth.

Faith is never an easy option.  Faith is a choice and, this year, it's what I'm choosing.