Hope House Seven Years On: The Battle for Hope (honesty and trigger warning)

Today marks seven years since we moved into this house.  And never have I felt more of a battle for hope.

We moved in full of faith and dreams and plans.  We were a 'family on a mission'.  It was thrilling to see long-held dreams being fulfilled in front of our eyes.  Setting up Hope at Home was a faith adventure for all of us.

Seven years on, I feel battle-scarred, exhausted, hopeless and full of crushing disappointment.  We've certainly seen some of our dreams become reality, but my home now feels one of the most hopeless places.  Ironic, isn't it?

When we moved in, our boys were 13, 11 and 7.  We had no idea that the tidal wave of teen-years was about to hit us, devastating and re-configuring the landscape of our family, our parenting, our faith and our expectations.  

Call me naive but as a christian Mum, I didn't expect to have to navigate sexual activity, drug use, school exclusions, seeing my child thrown and handcuffed by the police, suicidal ideation and violence.  I've lost my 'family on a mission'. I've had to completely change my parenting style and it doesn't 'fit' with the christian parenting books.  How many other christian parents do you know who sit round a fire chatting with their weed-smoking kids or making sure they have condoms because they're not quite ready to be grandparents?  Yeah, I'm that Mum.  And I never expected to be.

I've also lost my church family.  I'm wandering in a lonely wilderness of never quite fitting.  As someone who was always right in the middle of church life, I'm now hovering on the edge.  My feelings about the wider church have shocked me.  The disappointment of battling every single day to engage churches with Hope at Home has caused me to almost completely disengage.  My theology has changed too.  I just don't believe the same things anymore.   

And the strangeness of a church meeting with its rows of chairs and stages and lights and bands just doesn't seem to match my day to day life.  Instead of prayer meetings and bible studies, my house is constantly full of cannabis-smoking, alcohol-drinking, swearing but beautiful teenagers.  I can't compute how this fits with church.

The sign on our front door includes this bible verse: 

'Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.'  Hebrews 11:1

I'm in the 'not seeing' stage.  How can I be certain that things are going to be different?

And this is surely where the reality of faith gets down and dirty.  

The questions are more numerous than the answers.

Do I still believe change is possible in the wider church?  Do I still believe that hearts will be changed to be inclusive, welcoming, humble and hospitable?  Do I believe that the church can accept us; bruised, battered, tattooed, swearing and needing fag-breaks?  More than ever, I am finding Jesus in the rubble of my life.  Can I believe that Jesus is found in the church too?

Do I still believe that my boys will have a strong, life-changing and world-changing faith?  Will they find, eventually, that Jesus satisfies more than anything or anyone else? Will he be their pearl of great price?  Can I be certain of what I don't currently see?

And so, as we mark this seven year 'house-iversary', I face these big questions.  Can I continue to battle for faith, knowing that there will be more scars and wounds and devastation along the way?

So, I do the small things.  I get out of bed.  I eat my breakfast,  I put one foot in front of the other.  I sit at my computer and try to find homes for people who need them.  I keep chatting with and laughing with and loving my boys.  

There's nothing left now other than to keep believing.  

And I guess this is faith. 

Friendly Fire (Controversial & Honesty Warning)

When I realised we needed to set up a charity providing safe homes for survivors of slavery facing homelessness, I thought I was prepared.

I was fully prepared to hear the horrific stories of trauma, injustice and gut-wrenching pain.  As an empath, I knew that it was going to be an emotional rollercoaster for me.

I also expected the hard slog, the sleepless nights, the arguments with my husband (we work together - don't ask me if I recommend it...), the never-ending learning curve of processes and procedures and the personal growth that accompanies it.

I expected to have to battle corrupt, inhumane and hostile policies from our government.

I was even ready for the broad spectrum of public misconceptions around modern slavery to blatant racism.

Call me naive, but what I absolutely was not prepared for was the friendly fire.

And here's where you can stop reading if you're going to find this a challenge.  I don't mind if you stop.  Just scroll on to something more cheerful.  But this needs to be said.

And not just the friendly fire but the ignoring.  The apathy.  The commission and omission.

I know the world is an overwhelming place.  Believe me, I know this.  I know that many churches and Jesus-followers are involved in amazing projects that seek to make this world less overwhelming for those who don't have some of our privileges or who face injustice and poverty.  So, before I say anymore, I want to acknowledge this.  

But.

For 3 1/2 years I have been banging my head against a brick wall of churches.  

It's not just the lack of response and the ignoring of my emails and phone calls.  

It's the phone calls from churches telling me not to contact them again.  Churches who, on their websites, talk about inclusivity and welcome.  I don't know why I'm left open mouthed each time this happens, but I am.

It's the emails from large churches (1500+ people) telling me that they're not going to share our (ONE HOUR) zoom event because they can't think of anyone who would be interested.  

It's the dismissive attitude that robs people of having a home.

It's the need to help people who 'feel deserving' rather than those who have nobody looking out for them.

It's the emails from the actual social action person in the church telling me their church isn't interested.  Yep, the actual, paid social action person.

A one hour zoom, people.  Survivors of slavery surely deserve that much of our time.

I'm angry.  

I'm angry on behalf of the people we welcome and love who need homes.  

I'm angry because I know there are people who want to use their spare bedrooms for good but don't know how they can do this.

I'm angry because the Church isn't doing what we're meant to be doing.

And I'm disappointed.

I started out with such a faith and belief that when they found out survivors of slavery needed homes, the Church would rise up and fill that gap.  Because that's what we're here for, right?  Welcoming the stranger and all that?

But each time my head has banged against a church brick wall, my heart and my faith have taken a battering.  It's exhausting to read all the referral forms, knowing the need and knowing the difference a welcoming home would make to this person.  And then not being able to give them that home.

I've been in a church leadership family.  I know its busy and full-on and pressured.  I know there are many, many needs that pull on the time of church leaders.  That's why I'm not asking them to run a project.  I'm only asking churches to share our event with their people.

And I can't understand why they don't.  

So, no, I wasn't prepared for this deep, heart-wrenching disappointment and anger.  Nobody told me I'd have to deal with this every. single. day.  

I know I can't change hearts and minds.  All I can do is keep doing what I'm meant to be doing.  And keep forgiving and loving and showing mercy.

But know this, one day Jesus will separate us into those who fed the hungry, clothed the naked and welcomed the stranger and those who didn't.  

And I want to be on the right side, don't you?

Where can I find him?

 

"Is there anyplace I can go to avoid your Spirit?

     Or be out of your sight?

If I climb to the sky, you’re there!

    If I go underground, you’re there!

If I flew on morning’s wings to the far western horizon,

You’d find me in a minute - you’re already there waiting!

Then I said to myself, 'Oh, he even sees me in the dark!

    At night I’m immersed in the light!'

It’s a fact: darkness isn’t dark to you;

    night and day, darkness and light, they’re all the same to you."   Psalm 139

I used to read this and wonder about the darkness bit.

I mean, surely we wouldn't find God in the darkness.  Why would he be there?

This year, I've found him.  

Not in the big or small church gatherings.

Not in the flashy music or the single strumming guitar.

Not in the wordy preaches or the group bible studies.

Not in the daily 'quiet time'.

I've found him in the dew-covered cobwebs, in the brand new petals reaching for the sunlight and in the vast expansive views from the heights of the hills.

I've found him in the steely courage of a survivor of unimaginable horrors, smiling and pressing on with life despite the physical and mental pain she's in.

I've found him lying in shards of glass as I hold onto my howling teenager for literal dear-life.

I've found him in the stories of old.  The well-knowns like Elijah and David and the relatively newer stories of Nana and Grandad and Elisabeth Eliot and Amy Carmichael.

I've found him in the flowers on my coffee table, their bright colours smiling on my day.

I've found him in the deep conversations sitting around a crackling fire as the light of the day dims.

I've found him in the cheerful and sacrificial love of those who welcome strangers into their homes.

I've found him in the guitar playing and gravelly voice of a teenage boy.

I've found him in the early morning praise of the birdsong.

I've found him in the hot tub, surrounded by the haze of weed but talking about him as if he's really there.

I've found him in the warmth of sunshine on my face and the crunch of snow under my feet.

I've found him in bacon butties cooked for the hordes, the morning after the drunken noisy night before.

I've found him in the smile of a child as they delight in smashing ice on a lake.

I've found him in the middle of a fight with a teenager.

I've found him as I've listened and really heard.

I've found him while brushing strokes of paint onto an empty wall.

When things become darker, he becomes closer.

He speaks to me in the ugly places, the moments of beauty and the times of raw open heart-ache.  He's waiting for me in the dark places.  He's already there.  

In those dark, uncomfortable, lonely, fear-ridden, gritty, messy and unexpected places, I've found his streams of light beaming in like rays of sun though the forest trees.

Don't fear the dark places.

He got there before us.  

The Table

 Last week I read these two quotes on the same day:

"When you give a dinner, don't invite your friends, brother, sisters, relatives or rich neighbours; if you do, they may invite you back and so you will be repaid.  But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the disabled and the blind, and you will be blessed.  Although they cannot repay you, you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous."     Jesus

"This is what God's kingdom is like; a bunch of outcasts and oddballs gathered at a table, not because they are rich or worthy or good but because they are hungry, because they said yes.  And there is always room for more."  Rachel Held Evans

And all of a sudden my brain exploded into imagining this table.  And now I'm inviting you to imagine it too.

There's no pretense at this table.  We don't have to use matching plates, bowls, cutlery and napkins.  We come because we are hungry.

Hungry for belonging.

Hungry for friendship.

Hungry for healing.

Hungry for wholeness.

Hungry for understanding.

Hungry for acceptance.

Hungry to be in a group where you can ask any question without eyebrows being raised.  

You can even drop the odd swear.

You can nip out for a smoke and come back in, wafting the stench of acceptance into the group.  

We can eat and be satiated.  Satiated by the food but also by the wonder of belonging.

For we are all outcasts and oddballs and misfits really.  Who says we 'fit' more than anyone else?  Who says we are the healthy ones?  Who decides those things?

Jesus invites us all.  Whether we can repay or not.  Whether we can bring a whole home-cooked casserole or half an open pack of doritos grabbed from the cupboard.

All are welcome and there's always space for more.  We can scoot up and bit and squeeze in another chair.  No need to sit on the outside.  No need to look in through the window and feel alone.

So, what?

What if, instead of home-groups and lifegroups and organised groups of same-type people, we all had gatherings at the table for ones different to us?

What if we made space at our table for the ones who bring the doritos or the chippy-chips?

What if our table gathered the oddballs and the misfits and we all met Jesus together?

What if those of us who think we're all good, meet Jesus in the supposed misfit at our table?

What if the ones who smell are actually bringing precious incense into our home?

What if our table gathers the hungry instead of the feeders?  The ones who want to be fed instead of the ones needing to feed.

What if we can be fed by the hungry?

What if we were never meant to sit in rows in church but instead church is really one enormous table, welcoming new ones into the family?  Laughing, eating, reminiscing, listening, weeping, telling stories, challenging thinking, asking questions.

THAT Mum

When I was 20, I visited my friend in Nepal.  She was living in Kathmandu as a missionary and school teacher.  

One evening we met with other missionaries in the city to read the bible and worship Jesus together.  They were a real higgeldy-piggeldy bunch from all over the world.  Families, singles, old and young all crammed into someone's lounge.  And as the singing began, I looked around the room and noticed a mum and daughter, arms around one another, eyes closed, singing together.  It was serene and perfect.  

I decided there and then that I was going to be THAT mum.  I was going to be a mum who worshipped with her children.  Jesus would be the connection between us - the thread of gold that held us all together. 

Over 20 years and three children later, I am not THAT mum.

I tried.  I threw my absolute all into it.

But instead, I am the mum who discusses with her teenagers whether they'd have sex with a transgender person.

I am the mum who swears.

I am the mum who gets in the hot tub (weekend hire - recommended...) with her teenagers right after they've been smoking things she doesn't want them to smoke and, with their eyes bright, she chats about Jesus with them.

I am the mum who loves and welcomes their girlfriends and breaks all her 'I'll never be that kind of mum' rules by letting them stay over.

I am the mum who is so open with her children that they talk about masturbation and pornography around the kitchen table.

I am the mum who puts cigarette lighters in their stockings at Christmas because they are always losing them and stealing our matches.

I am the mum whose children discuss with her which drug dealers are the better ones in the town.

I am the mum who gets into bed with her teenage son in mental health crisis and hugs him tightly so he knows she's there, despite the shards of broken glass that litter the bed from his rage digging into her skin. 

I am the mum who has heated debates over Black Lives Matter and women's rights with her children.

I am the mum who smoked a cigarette with her boy, just so he'd chat with her.

I am the mum who speaks truth over her children, even when they roll their eyes at her.

I am the mum who doesn't give up on her children, who always accepts, always loves and always hopes.  Even when hope feels like a shadow.

And today, on Mother's Day, as I fight the disappointment of not being THAT mum, I remember these words from 1 Corinthians 13:

 

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails. 

Despite not being THAT mum,  I'm a mum who loves her children.  And that's enough.

So if, like me, you are facing disappointment today, read this and be encouraged.  I'm preaching to myself here.

Nobody else is a mum to your children.  

Nobody else can parent them the way they need.  

Other mums have different races to run.  We have ours.  We run in our race.  It might look very different to the races that other mums run.  We cheer each other on, we don't compare and we don't lose hope.

Love never fails. 

Why I'd invite Shamima Begum to live in my house.

 I live with three teenagers.

That means I also live with the glorious ideals of three teenagers who are. always. right.

My teenagers have a relatively stable home (throw in the odd shouty-mum moment) and they enjoy the privilege of being white and middle class.  They don't face racism every day.  They don't have to work extra hard to be given their place in society.  They just exist and it's given to them on a plate.

But they still love their ideals.  And the debates in our house range from LGBTQ+ rights to FGM to the legalisation of cannabis.  Their opinions are strong.

But so was I at their age.  These days my views, like my hair, are far greyer.

It's normal for teenagers to throw themselves, passionately and wholeheartedly into an ideal and act on it.  Most of us have, and regretted it later.  It's how our brains develop.

Imagine then, a teenager with this developing brain, being systematically groomed by a group with very strong, very attractive ideals.  This teenager hasn't had the privileges my boys have had.  She's faced inequality, covert and overt racism and injustice whilst growing up as a British muslim.  The groomers point all this out to her, telling her she's justified in fighting back.  They understand how she feels when nobody else does.  They can use her to fight for the cause.  She'll have purpose.  She will have ideals.  She is needed.  Little by little, her developing brain is changed by these infiltrating messages.  Grooming changes the brain.  It's a known fact.

It's not even subtle.  They weedle their way into her brain, exploiting her background and her teenage development.  Until eventually, she's all in.

And, at just 15 years old, she boards a flight to Syria.

In law, human trafficking must have three elements:

• The Act (recruiting, selecting, transporting, harbouring of a person)
• The Means (through force, coercion, deception, fraud etc)
• The Purpose (for forced labour, sexual exploitation, forced marriage, domestic servitude, organ harvesting, criminal exploitation)

I'm no expert on Shamima Begum's case but it smells strongly of human trafficking to me.  

Shamima was selected, recruited, groomed and deceived into joining ISIS in order to be married off, sexually and criminally exploited.

The level of trauma she will have both witnessed and endured is beyond our white middle-class imaginings.  Her brain development will have taken a huge hit.  Post Traumatic Stress Disorder is highly likely.  She might not even be able to remember all she has seen and done whilst an active member of ISIS.  Now separated from her family, living with this trauma, she finds herself stateless and living in a camp.  At only 21 years old, she has experienced the grief of losing three babies, losing friends and family and losing her citizenship.

I hear your murmurs about this being her choice...

But remember how the developing teenage brain works?  Which of us made choices in our teen years that we later realised were the wrong choices?  And remember how grooming changed her brain?  We can, perhaps, argue that she had no choice in this at all.  She was swept along in the excitement, endorphins and purpose of fighting for those she cared about - whatever the cost.

What would we offer to other young adults in her predicament right now?

Stability

Support

Therapy

Family and community

And this is why I, as a mum of teenagers and a host of survivors of human trafficking in the UK, would invite Shamima Begum into my home.  

I can't change all that she's been through.  I can't heal the wounds or her regrets.  I can't stop the nightmares and the flashbacks.  I can't take away any of the shame she may be feeling.  I can't bring back her precious babies.

But I could show her acceptance while she heals.  I could show her that there are people who love her, despite her mistakes - however huge they might be.  I could give her the stability of somewhere safe to sleep at night that isn't patrolled by gunmen, three meals a day and the odd dog walk in the sunshine.  I could play games with her, showing her that it's okay to laugh again.  

I know that Shamima Begum probably won't ever end up in my kitchen, but I'd like to think that if there were others like her; groomed, exploited, with a history of criminal behaviour, I would be able to welcome them to my tribe.  

Expelling people is never the answer.

Welcoming them, is.

An Introvert's Lockdown

I have to admit that I enjoy some aspects of lockdown.

Unlike my extrovert husband who is so desperate for conversation that the poor man fixing the shower was barely able to get on with his job because my husband kept interrupting him for a chat.

He is going slightly crazy without human interaction.

I, on the other hand, am enjoying wearing my 'day pyjamas' every day, pulling on old muddy jeans for dog walks and then changing again when I arrive home.  I can't remember the last time I wore proper clothes.  I only brush my hair once a week, if that, usually either wearing a hat indoors (yes, our house is that cold) or scraping my hair back into a messy ponytail.  

I love the relief of not having the make excuses about why I don't want to go out or the guilt of making plans and then cancelling them at the last minute because I'm just too peopled out.

I love the fact that I can only leave the house once a day, and that's for a dog walk.

And although zoom calls highlight my triple chins and can drain me like our leaky gutters, I love that I can be in my day pyjamas, wonderwoman beanie hat and slippers and I don't have to travel anywhere.  I love the authenticity of it all.

But, even I, am now finding lockdown tough.  There are so many things I miss.  And they might be different to the things my extrovert husband misses.

Children.  

I know this makes me sound a little bit weird.

But when you are only surrounded by teenagers who regularly roll their cynical all-knowing eyes at you and comment on how childish you are for laughing at a video of a hippo flicking his poo everywhere with his tail (if you know, you know) then you realise how much you miss the delight and innocence of littlies.  

In The Before, I would meet with my church family every week.  I could chat with the littlies about dinosaurs, building snowmen and the tooth fairy.  And they'd laugh with me about farts and bogeys.  These days I just have to giggle to myself and endure the withering-teenage-looks.

An Empty House

Oh my goodness, how I LONG for an empty house.

In The Before, my husband would enjoy travelling, my boys would be out at school or with friends and I sometimes had several hours of an empty house.  

No interruptions.

Nobody asking me 'Mum, have you seen my phone charger?' or 'Mum, what's wrong with the wifi?'

No loud, blaring music from different rooms in the house.

No tinny squeak of video-watching.

No x-box game shouting.

These days, The Noise invades EVERYTHING.  

A Clean Kitchen

Sometimes our dishwasher is loaded and unloaded THREE TIMES a day.  

It makes no difference how often we clear the kitchen of the locust-debris, half an hour later someone is cooking again. 

The pans, plates, bowls, cups, empty pizza boxes and pot noodle pots just never stop piling up.  And when we come downstairs in the mornings, it sometimes looks as though our fridge, freezer and cupboards have been pillaged.

At least these days the locusts mostly pile up their empties in the vague direction of the sink.  

In The Before, we could actually see the kitchen worktops.  We'd clear up after our evening meal and it generally stayed that way for several hours.  The dishwasher was only used once a day.  The recycling mountain didn't need to be flattened every day.

These days?  Not so much.

Hugs

I haven't ever gone this long without hugging my Mum and Dad.  And on the rare occasions when we do see them, it feels wrong not to hug them.

And there are other people too whose hugs just bring relief, healing, the chance to breath out and for a second feel like everything is going to be ok.

In The Before, I was a hugger.  I touched people a lot.  (Oh, I'm sounding weird again)  Hello hugs, Goodbye hugs, Celebration hugs, I'm Your Friend hugs, I Know You're Sad hugs, It's Going To Be Ok hugs, You Can Cry On Me hugs and I'm Going To Cry On You hugs.  

So. Many. Hugs.

And I miss them.  I have a husband who hugs me and one son who finds me wherever I am in the house wraps his arms around me when he wakes up in the mornings  afternoons, so I am grateful.  (The two other sons are currently ironing-board-huggers but even they don't escape my octopus hugging arms sometimes).

But still, there are so many people I miss hugging.

The Sea

Our family life over the last few years hasn't been easy.  

In The Before, I had just discovered the relief and need of time away.  And one of the places I love to find that respite and soul-healing is by the sea.

Not only do we probably live the furthest away from any possible coastal area, but not being able to travel has meant that I can't see the sea with it's fresh, salty air, hope-filled horizons, stretches of sand and the relief of the endless in-and-out-waves.

Staring at the sea changes my perspective on life.  My soul misses this.

I'm making sure to enjoy my simple pleasures of my comfy day pyjamas, mornings cups of tea in the quiet, sleeping house and dog walks in the fresh air and occasional sunshine.  

But when I can hug again, you'd better prepare yourselves.

Blame

 Maybe this is too similar to my last blog musings, several months ago.  

Maybe I still need to hear it.

Maybe you still need to hear it too.

There is a Christian tradition of blame.  There, I've said it.  We all know it isn't biblical, but we do it anyway.  Especially if your children 'go off the rails'.  It must be our fault, somehow.  We must have raised them wrong.  There is even a charity that holds workshops and writes books to help parents 'raise kids without them hating God'.  

So, by default, if your kids do hate / question / ignore / disbelieve God, you must have raised them wrong?

Maybe I should have read that book 15 years ago.  

Or maybe, just maybe, it's not my fault.

(And as an aside, if you have kids who are still on the God-path, don't let blame creep into your heart for the Mums like me.  Please.  We have enough disappointment and sorrow to deal with already.  Tell us we are good parents.  Pray with us and for us.  Pray for our kids.  Send us flowers.  But don't give us a book on 'how to raise your kids without them hating God'.  Because its not our fault.)

I was (and still am) a bloody good Mum.  I did the whole Christian-mum thing.  If you read my last blog, you can see for yourself.  I'm not going to start defending myself here.

I haven't 'turned them off God' or made life choices that have caused my boys to live the way they are living.  Poor mental health in my child is not my fault.  God isn't punishing me in some malevolent, revenge-filled way for the times I shouted at my boys or locked myself in the bathroom for some peace (and chocolate).  God hasn't doled out 'justice' to me for those dark, post-natal depression years when I couldn't even feel love for my child.  

God. Doesn't. Blame. Me.

So I shouldn't blame myself either.

And I shouldn't accept the default position of Christian tradition that whispers into my heart all my failings as a mum.

It's simply not true.

I can't change my boys' lifestyle choices.  At 19 and almost 17, they are young men with their faces set towards a whole world of adventure ahead of them.  I've done the groundwork.  I've helped to dig their foundations.  Exhausting and grueling it may have been, but that digging was good.  Their foundations are full of love, acceptance, grace and truth.  And now it's up to them to build the rest of their lives.  

Of course my mum-heart grieves.  Their rejection of all that I hold close to my heart is painful.  Debilitating sometimes.  Their blasting sweary music that celebrates violence and crime.  The smell of tobacco and cannabis.  The noisy nocturnal lives that they lead.  The debates we have with them over the nature of God (how can He really be good?).  The way they sleep all Sunday mornings instead of joining to gather with our church family.  I know that ultimately this path they have chosen will not bring them the fulfilling joy they are seeking.

Mums always want the best for their children.  And this isn't the best.

And do you know something?  I'm still proud of them.  I'm proud of the men they are becoming.  I'm proud of the way they think about their choices.  I love their humour.  I love how they are changing me, shoving me into a life of not judging but accepting.  I'm proud of the way they protect and cherish me.  I squeeze every last joy-drop of hanging out with them.  They make my heart smile too.

But I have to leave them with my Jesus, who promises to redeem.

My Jesus grieves with me too.

He weeps when I weep.

And he hears my prayers; my heart-murmurs, my shouts, my stomps around their bedrooms, my whispers, my groans and my tears full of unsaid words.  He hears it all.  And he's not ignoring me.

He sits in the shit with me.  His heart for my boys laments right along with mine.

And, let me just say it again for good measure.

God. Doesn't. Blame. Me.

So, I accept where we are now and I sit in the shit with Jesus.  I allow myself to feel instead of rushing past the emotions and declaring it's not real.  I don't pretend.  

I cling with every last bitten fingernail on to that faith-hope that tells me my Jesus will redeem this.

His love pursues them.

His goodness and mercy follow them all the days of their lives.  Even when I can't.  Even when they turn the tracker off their phones and disappear off on a bike.  

My boy who is 'stuck' and trapped by his poor mental health will not be a prisoner forever.  This heart-pain will not last.  

My Jesus is already on the case.  And I don't have to do anything to make this happen.

I wait for his rescue.

I wait for his redemption.

And I allow the whispers that tell my heart I'm a good mum to drown out the accusations of blame.  

It's not the end.

Train a child in the way they should go....

I don't know who else needs to hear this today, but this verse from Proverbs 22 isn't condemning you:

"Train a child in the way they should go and when they are old they will not depart from it."

Here's what it's not saying:

This proverb is not a magic formula.  

It's not a prosperity gospel - do this and all these amazing things will happen.

How do I know this?

Because I need to hear this too.

Here's what we did:

👉Daily family morning bible and prayer times

👉Teaching our boys to pray and listen to God

👉Seeing the sick healed

👉Telling others about Jesus

👉Memory verses

👉Instrument-learning for worship times

👉Encouraging them to engage during church meetings

👉Going to God first whenever there's a problem

👉Seeing God answer prayers - huge ones too

👉Experiencing the weight and heavy glory of the presence of God.

Here's what we also did:

👉Teaching them to question and find answers for themselves

👉Teaching them to take risks and succeed or fail well

👉Giving them choices and helping them to make wise ones

👉Accept and love them when they're not so wise

And this has led to them asking their own questions about faith and the world.  

It's led to them making their own choices, which aren't the ones we'd hoped for.  

They've made mistakes.

They are their own people, with their own thoughts and values.

Watching this can be crushingly disappointing.  

The fear can be paralysing.  

The internal accusations never-ending.

But isn't this how Father God parents us?

He didn't make us robotic, following sets of rules and loving him because we have to.

He gave us choices.  He made us free. Our lives are messy.  We make mistakes.  We do things in ways that grieve his heart.  We find the real meaning of grace when we discover that we are still accepted and loved by him, despite our choices.  And in the end, we love him because we choose to not because we have to.

So, if you're in this shitty gritty season of watching your babies who used to sing and pray in church now reject all those things you taught them....

Well done.

Because you've trained people who are thinking for themselves.

You have taught them how to make choices, how to mess up, how to be real.

You've succeeded in giving them the freedom to find out what they really believe about the world.

Every time you tell them you love them or find a way to encourage them, you are modelling grace and love and acceptance to them.

You are rocking it.  

When you can't force social distancing...

I am mum to one almost-teenager and two teenagers.

One of these teenagers is very complex.

As well as ADHD, he also has something called Oppositional Defiance Disorder.

I know what you’re thinking, because I used to think the same thing.

It’s just another term for ‘naughty, undisciplined, badly parented’.

Until I realised that my parenting seemed to be vaguely successful with my other two children.

Not this one though.

Tell him that something is off limits, and he’ll be there in a heartbeat.

Say no and he’ll go ahead anyway.

Give a consequence and he won’t care.

He’s not just naughty and undisciplined.  In fact, he more disciplined than any of the others.  It just doesn’t seem to make any difference.

So, having a teenager (think ‘no fear, risk-loving, rebellious, self-centred) combined with ODD (think off-the-charts-actually-you-probably-can’t-even-imagine-it) when the government give guidelines to stay at home and social distance from each other means that my life over the last few days has been pretty shit (excuse the language, but this is how we roll these days - #likersgonnalike #hatersgonnahate and all that).

If you see a teenager out and about right now, please don’t judge the parents.  If they are anything like us, they will have attempted Every. Single. Known. Way. of explaining the situation to their teen and it will have, quite literally, gone through their selfish ears and out again before you can even cough.

“What if you try to stop him at the door?” you might ask.

He would actually punch us. 

“What if you locked him in his bedroom, or locked the front door?”

He would jump out of the window.  He’s done it before.

So, we know we all have to ‘to do our bit’ and we really are doing our best here.

We know that we have to flatten the curve and protect the invaluable NHS.

We know that saving lives is vital.

But please don’t judge us because our teenager is out and about.

And please don’t give us any parenting advice.  We’ve had more advice than you can stockpile toilet roll.

We know he shouldn’t be out.

We don’t know how to stop him.

Please be kind.

Just be kind.

When courage doesn't feel courageous.

Last summer we had a sunshiney family holiday.  Incredibly we were able to go to Santorini in Greece and we loved the water, the heat and, of course, the food.

As a treat, we booked a day out on a boat to visit the local hot springs, tour the beautiful island and jump in and out of the sea.

The trouble is, I don't really like jumping into water.  The rest of my family seem to be able to fling themselves into water from any angle possible.  Not me.  It's too scary.

So I spent the few days leading up to the boat trip practicing.  I jumped into the swimming pool, first of all with my lovely Jonah there to pull me up in case anything went wrong.  Then, as I was more confident, I managed to jump without anyone there at all.

When we finally reached the big day, I was determined.  As expected, the boys spent the whole day backflipping, somersaulting, pushing and dive bombing into the sea.  

I mostly (ungracefully) climbed down the ladder on the side of the boat.  Until we reached the hot springs.  I wanted to be able to jump in.  I knew it would be safe (ish).  Jared was next to me.  But as I stared at the water, it felt like an enormous drop.  I was scared.  So, instead of jumping, I took a step off the boat and slid into the water.  It wasn't very ladylike and I resurfaced spluttering.

But I did it.  

And that's how courage feels.

I wasn't feeling full of energy.

I didn't have the 'ooomph' and 'pump' to do it.

I was still scared, even though I'd practiced.

The water looked too deep.

My brain was telling me not to do it.

I didn't know how it would end.

I wasn't feeling like Wonderwoman.

But the Disney and Pixar version of courage isn't real.  To have all you need before you make that scary jump just is fictional.

Courage is making the jump anyway.

Courage is waking up each morning, without knowing all the answers, but getting out of bed anyway.

Courage is loving that person who can't return your love at the moment.

Courage is crying and wobbling, but going ahead with the decision you've made.

Courage is knocking on a door and not knowing what's on the other side.

Courage is saying no when you can't do it all.

Courage is taking the scary feelings, piling them out in front of you and then stepping over the pile.

Courage sometimes means we resurface spluttering.

Courage doesn't ignore the 'you can't' words.  Sometimes courage takes those words along on the ride.

Courage is persevering when everything inside wants to give up.

Courage does not feel all the Hollywood feels.  

Its a tiny stubborn spark of determination that, despite the reality of the circumstances, propels you to make that jump.

Post-Christmas Musings

And so we come to the end of another Christmas. 
The decorations are down (sigh of relief) and the choccies are all gone (love/hate feelings...).

I decided to set my expectations low for Christmas this year, knowing that in the past I have seriously believed that my family could be the same as the perfect ones on the telly and then being bitterly disappointed when someone threw someone else's toothbrush out of the window or someone else used all of someone's lynx to light their own farts.

Some people may think this is a pessimistic way to approach the holidays.  I prefer to believe it is realistic.  I kept everything extremely simple. No baking, no home-made decorations, no bible-versed advent calendars at breakfast and even no turkey! And it worked. 

Rather than look back over the last couple of weeks and feel weary and discouraged because we didn't all play instruments together for our own family Carol Service (seriously, I made them do this more than once) or manage a 10 mile hike up the nearest hills on Boxing Day, I can actually point to several triumphs of our time together. 

So, for my own benefit mostly but also in case it encourages you, here are my 2019 Christmas triumphs:

1. We played a game all together without anyone falling out.  No board-throwing across the room.  No stomping out and slamming doors.  There was laughter, banter and even the occasional encouragement!  It was a Christmas miracle and one that this mum's heart will treasure.

2.  Christmas Dinner was enjoyed by all.  Instead of turkey, we had bought a few different smaller joints of meat and we created a carvery.  Everyone chose their own food and piled it on their plates. This meant that they ate the lot and if you've ever seen my face when food is wasted, you will know that this pleases my little soul immensely.

3.  We slept.  Thankfully long gone are the days of waking up in the middle of the night with little ones.  These days it's the other way round as we are awake late waiting for the big ones to come home. But having two weeks off work meant that we could sleep in late each morning.  And it was delightfully decadent.

4.  We had chance to re-connect.  Without the pressures of school and work, the reminders to do homework, the checking for letters in bags, making sure everyone is where they need to be at the right times, we could all relax and remember why we actually like each other.  Time spent chatting about the important life stuff meant that we could appreciate each others' hearts again.  Realising that, whilst they make choices I don't always agree with, my older two young men have minds and thoughts of their own gave me a fresh gratitude for them and the way they think.


I'm not the kind of person who makes New Year's Resolutions.  (Apart from one year when I resolved not to look for anyone's stuff anymore.  It worked, by the way.  I still don't look for their apparently lost stuff unless they are desperate.  It's usually right in front of them.)  So, I won't harp on about goals for the year.  But 2020 is going to be a year of change for our family with one boy completing GCSE's and leaving school and another boy completing 'A' Levels and heading off to University.  My plan is to be a mum who chats.  I want to make time to chat over after-school snacks three-course-meals.  I want to accept and not judge.  I want to be an ear to help them process the stuff of life. 

I'm bracing myself, yet again, for, well, I don't quite know what for. 
But life moves forwards, and so must we.

Honesty Over Silence

Two years have passed since my last post.  Thankfully and incredibly, we didn't need a Plan B.

Charity status, funding and a full-blown-proper-grown-up job-running an organisation ensued and the last two years have been a learning curve that has sometimes felt impossible but always breathtaking.  Hope at Home has now been operating for almost two years and we shake our heads in wonder at the journey God has taken us on.

But this blog has mostly been about the realities of family life and our attempts to raise our boys to be worldchangers.

And so, two years on, we now find ourselves parents to an 18 year old, a 15 year old and a 12 year old.  Muddy forest walks and tree climbing have been replaced by x-box games, driving, girls, expensive trainers and part time jobs.  Our lives are unrecognisable from those years of marbles, ice-sculpture-making and breakfast bible reading.

I decided that honesty over silence might be beneficial, not simply for me (as writing helps me process) but for others who feel the weight and sometimes shame of family life not being the one you'd expected.

So, here's our current reality (prepare yourselves for some eye-watering honesty):

1. Despite years of solid faith and foundations, two of our young men are not living a life that we expected them to live.  They don't come to church with us.  We don't pray as a family anymore.  I don't know if they pray when they are on their own.  They drink. They smoke.  They do other stuff that we find unbearable to watch.

2.  Good mental health is a daily battle. We have both seen a therapist over the last couple of years.  Depression and anxiety tap us on the shoulder continuously as we wade through the trenches of life.

3.  We are still waiting for promises to be fulfilled.  Promises over our boys, our marriage and our life.  Currently, they look impossible.

4.  Working together, living together and parenting together has been one of the hardest aspects of running Hope at Home.  Our marriage has suffered.

5.  All those smug feelings of being a good Christian parent have come back to bite us on the bum.  Did all our efforts work?  We don't know.  That feels scary.

6.  We swear.  I know.  Those naughty words that we didn't allow the boys to say are now regular features of our conversations.

7.  Speaking of conversations, our mealtime chats (when everyone is actually there) aren't about dinosaurs and zombie apocalypses anymore.  They're about gender identity, feminism, terrorism, human rights, the death penalty, masturbation, atheism and sex toys.  (I warned you it would be eye watering.)

8.  We wait up at night to see if our young men will stick to their curfew or not.  And when they don't, we worry.  And when they do, we still worry.

9. An ADHD diagnosis has brought understanding but also more challenge as we navigate life with a new lens.

10.  It all flipping hurts.  And we cry.  Lots.

(And even while I've been writing this blog there has been a blazing row about the whens and wheres of going out.)


We know we are doing the right thing with Hope at Home.  It's progressing at a pace.  It's changing lives and sometimes even saving lives.

Everything else?  It's (insert swear word or other more polite word of your choice).

But.

I have a choice.

Do I bow to the sadness, the shame, the feelings of despair?
Do I give up and give in?
Do I stop loving the One who made the promises?
Do I decide it's not worth it?
Do I still believe God is good?

I have to choose to keep going.
Keep believing he keeps his promises.
Keep trusting my boys are in his hands.
Keep declaring he is good.
Keep lifting my eyes up to his goodness and mercy above the depression and anxiety.
Keep remembering his faithfulness over the years.

So, we choose vulnerability and honesty over silence and shame.  

We open up our bruised hearts, allowing others to stand with us, and we wait for the Promise Keeper to do what he says he will do.

Plan B

I’m a pray-er.  

I totally and utterly believe that my God can do the impossible.  (Letting you into a little secret, sometimes when I pray I feel like Wonderwoman taking ground in enemy lines.  It’s pretty exciting.)

But I currently find myself in a period of waiting for a really important answer.  I’ve prayed about it for so long that I think even God must be getting bored of my prayers now and I’m certainly running out of words.  My prayers have become an inner longing, a groan.  In the waiting I find my praying has become a minute-by-minute closeness with my God.

We’ve given up jobs and time and, quite honestly, our whole lives preparing for the answer we are waiting for.  The last three months we have spent slogging over policies, procedures, website content, forms and things so complicated that I still don’t understand them as we are in the process of setting up our new charity, Hope at Home.  We have lived and breathed it.  It’s been a full time job for both of us and one we know, without any doubts, that God has asked us to do

But if we don’t receive the charity status we’ve applied for or manage to find an insurer who agrees to insure our scheme, all our efforts will grind to a halt.  We can’t operate as a charity without those two things.

It’s completely out of our hands.  All we can do is wait.  And pray.  Really pray.

I think about Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego; three characters found in the book of Daniel.  These guys lived in Babylon with a dictator of a king, Nebuchadnezzar, who forced the whole nation to bow down and worship him.  The three men refused.  They would only worship their God and they could not compromise.  And so Nebuchadnezzar decided to throw them into a fire.

Now, I know my tendency is to be somewhat dramatic.  Clearly if our prayers aren’t answered, we are not going to be thrown into a fire and burnt alive.  But there will certainly be ‘fire’ in the disguise of difficulties, decisions that need to be made, financial struggles and wondering what our God is doing.

But Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego didn’t have a plan B.  They told the King that they were absolutely certain their God would deliver them BUT EVEN IF HE DOESN’T, they would still not bow down and worship anyone else.

I was struck by this.

What is it that my anxieties about the future cause me to bow down to?

Fear?

Discontent?

Knowing the outcomes?

Lack of trust in my God?

Self reliance?

Supposed job security?

In the waiting, I choose to be like Shadrach Meshach and Abednego.  I refuse to bow down to these ‘idols’ because I am confident that my God will answer my prayers and deliver us.  I know he will make a way.  

BUT EVEN IF HE DOESN’T, I am still not going to make a plan B.  I am still not going to worship the cultural idols of job security and self-reliance.  Even if God does not answer my prayers in the way I think he should (and that’s a whole other blog), I still choose to trust him.

Why?

Because I know he is good.

I know he works all things together for my good and ultimately for his glory.

I know he loves me

I know he is faithful – he has proved this to me over and over again.

I know that he already has the victory.

I know his heart beats for justice.

I know his plans are perfect and that he always completes what he starts.

So, without a plan B, I choose to trust.  I choose to put my hopes, my dreams, my time, my finances, my family and my future into the hands of the One who knows what is coming next.

And I wait for his answer.

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.