A Day of Heroes
This week I have been mostly making history. For starters, I am one of the first non-officer guests to stay at The Salvation Army’s International College
of Officers in London. What’s more, I am currently attending the first ever International Prayer Leaders Conference in The Salvation Army. Eight years
ago I pitched up at the SA Mission Team office in Morden as the first ever Salvation Army Prayer Co-ordinator in the world, and now I am here with my counterparts
from 22 other territories. That’s progress!
All quite amazing and quite momentous!
The week has been everything I could have wished. It’s been inspirational hearing how TSA is developing its prayer and spirituality in cultures as diverse
as Canada and Ghana. It’s been heartening to find that I’m not alone in the struggles I have and the breakthroughs I rejoice in. It’s been almost spooky
to note the synchronicity of what God is doing across this vast global movement. And it’s been a lot of fun too.
Our days have, up to now, been full of lectures, story-telling and prayer, but today we broke the pattern a bit and took in some real history.
After a hasty breakfast, we piled into vans and headed for Wesley’s Chapel, near London’s financial district. Despite all my time working in London and
my appreciation of Wesley’s remarkable life, I’ve never been there before, so it was fascinating.
(And were I one of my ever-photographing Indian colleagues, I’d be able to show you some pictoral tasters … but there you go!)
We started in the chapel itself, and marvelled at the idea of a pulpit which put Wesley at eye-level with the people in the balcony. You really would have
to get all your vertigo demons dispatched before venturing into that kind of preaching.
(NB. Just in case you are reading this and are fundamentally insecure … no, I do not believe that having vertigo denotes demonic activity in your life
)
Then we went to look around Wesley’s house. My first observation was how remarkably like our house it is (minus the gigantic extension), but then I remembered
that it was built only 17 years before ours, so maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised! My second observation was that it was dusty and a bit musty-smelling,
but then such is the effect of preserving history I guess. He had the most enormous tea-pot too …
Just off John’s bedroom is his prayer room, and like the self-respecting prayer leaders we are, we of course huddled in there to pray. It’s a tiny room,
but the experience of being there was quite remarkable. To think he got up at 4am each morning and headed straight in there for time with his Heavenly
Father, before settling down to write another of his umpteen thousand sermons, or setting off on his horse to preach to the masses … And to think that
I was standing there, more than 200 years on, a direct beneficiary of all that he did, now doing my bit to keep the faith … All pretty sobering and yet
inspiring.
We finished with a visit to the museum, and Croft and I duly took our place in the pulpit he had used for 14 years. The photographic evidence resides in
the Indian cameras!
Then, after an afternoon of lectures and story-telling, we settled down this evening to watch a film about the lives of William and Catherine Booth …
and again I am confronted with heroes. Of course, I’ve spent most of my life hearing stories about early Salvation Army exploits, but to see the story
laid out in front of me, with all its joys and struggles, was humbling to say the least.
I come away from the film being sure that both of them were extreme fanatics, but also being sure that it would have been difficult to significantly impact
that climate of appalling deprivation and exploitation without being something of a lunatic. They needed the kind of blind passion that would drive them
through every kind of opposition, from being physically abused in the streets to being charged in the courts with pimping. They needed the kind of determination
that would take one look at the hundreds of thousands in abject misery and still not give up and go home.
I come away also being sure that they weren’t pastored or mentored in the way all of us need to be. There seem to have been few fathers and mothers of
the faith cheering them on or slowing them down, and perhaps that’s why Catherine died comparatively young, and why their family life was less than straightforward.
I come away being sure we have lessons to learn from that. As we pray for the kind of passion that drove the Booths to such great achievements, let’s also
pray for the kind of church that works together, as the body should, to support, advise and release its fanatics as wisely as it can.
John Wesley and William Booth both lived into their 80s. They both impacted the lives of hundreds of thousands of people. They both travelled the globe
and they were both at the heart of significant social transformation. Yet perhaps most importantly for me, the humble prayer co-ordinator, they both had
a deep heart-connection with the Jesus they preached, and they never let the size of the task or the fame of succeeding draw them away from that central
cord of love.
‘You give and take away’
It was the day after Jo’s second aneurysm, and 3 days before she died. I was on the phone to a friend, when my phone suddenly started beeping in the way it does when someone else is trying to get through to me. Ever conscious of the need to be alert for news on Jo, I asked my friend if she’d mind me checking who it was.
And it was something of a pleasant surprise. It was one of those excellent people from the Guide Dogs for the Blind Association, phoning to tell me she might well have found a new guide dog for me.
I say it was a pleasant surprise because I’d been on the waiting list for 18 months, and had got used to the very polite ‘we havent’ found you a dog yet’ letters dropping regularly into my inbox – so much so that I’d begun to stop thinking about when Hugo’s replacement would be along. Oh, I’d had the odd moments of worry, and of hounding Heaven for some kind of proof that there would be a replacement before Hugo got too old to work, but of late I’d worked out that said hounding was causing me more stress than it was Heaven. Heaven seemed pretty clear on its side of the bargain – that I would have all my needs met, according to the riches that are available in Christ Jesus. Heaven had confidently assured me that, though new guide dogs are not specifically mentioned in Scripture, they would certainly be factored in in my case.
So I had become peaceful about it… and what’s more, I was rather taken up with shock and grief at the illness of my dear friend and colleague. But isn’t it ever the way? Just when your back is turned, so to speak, Heaven delivers.
I told my Most Beloved Fellow House-dweller (AKA husband) about this strange feat of timing later in the day, and his response was typically whimsical and depressing (:)):
“The Lord gives, and the Lord takes away.”
I pointed out at the time that this was a little heartless, given the fact that I was trying desperately hard not to face the prospect of my friend being taken away, but as it happened he was about right.
If you’re hoping for deep wisdom on how a new guide dog might be some kind of recompense for Jo’s death, then I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. It isn’t. It isn’t by a long chalk. But the timing did remind me of how utterly in control God is.
So, after 2 weeks of Disney mayhem (of which more soon), I went into training with my new black lab cross retriever guide dog called Croft. After a rocky couple of weeks transitioning from one stage of training to the next, he has been shaping up very nicely indeed.
Croft, the new guide dog
For those of us lucky enough to train with the Maidstone Team, training usually happens at the Hilton Hotel in Maidstone itself. We are graciously granted a few rooms at the end of a corridor, with our own lounge, and a firedoor out to what are euphemistically known as the ’spending runs’ (places where dogs do their business) and a grooming shed. It truly is quite a home from home.
And it’s also nigh-on 2 weeks of full-board hotel food … so I’m now home to start the diet!
Training also means spending 10 days or so with a couple of other trainee-guide-dog-owners … 3 of them in my case. It is relatively rare in my life, and a great privilege, to spend that much time with people ‘like me’. I thoroughly enjoyed swapping ‘dodgy things my last dog got up to’ stories with them, and terrifying the ‘new boy’ (the one who had never had a dog before) with stories of what can happen to you when you are left to navigate the world alone with nothing but a small, domesticated animal.
And what of the newbie? Well, he is black (as I may have mentioned), and his name is Croft … which is not a bad name, given some that guide dog owners have to put up with His physical appearance is definitely marked by his half-retriever nature. He has a long neck and long legs, and the longest ears I think I’ve ever seen on a dog of his type. He makes Hugo look positively stumpy! However, he doesn’t have the fluffy malt-a-lot retriever coat, for which I am heartily grateful! For those of you who are devotees of Darby, and who have always seen Hugo as something of an impostor, I can tell you that he is, in looks and mannerisms, more like Darby than Hugo … but he’s black.
Croft's long retriever nose
He is settling in pretty well, if you overlook the incidents of pooing in the lounge, vomiting in the parlour and sneakily lying on the sofa(!!!). But then he is only 20 months old, so I suppose allowances have to be made. He is slowly getting to grips with the rigours of Canterbury – which is no mean feat – and he is growing in confidence all the time.
I took him to his first church service this morning – the first of many, I imagine! – and he coped extremely well. He was fast asleep in the sermon, mildly interested by the worship band, but thoroughly astonished by the organ. As the first swelling notes burst forth, his head shot up, his ears went sky-high and he stared in the direction of the sound, as though Armageddon were approaching!
For those of you who are worrying, let me reassure you that we have not dispatched Hugo to the municipal tip. He is still with us, leading a sedate retired guide dog life. He seems to quite like the new arrival, though is less keen on being jumped from around corners. He has been known to ascert his position with a grumpy growl when the young upstart has tried to nick his toy, but otherwise he seems happy to let Croft Harrass him with impunity.
Croft and Hugo
As for me? Well, I’m in that least-favourite phase of coping with the machinations of a new puppy who hasn’t settled yet. Most specifically, he is not at all keen to ’spend’ in my garden, which is not a good thing. But I’m reminded that both my other guide dogs had their teething troubles, and both shaped up to be pretty decent sorts in the end. Croft definitely has promise. Somewhere beneath the wobbly confidence there’s a feisty, determined retriever just waiting to burst out and fight its way through the London rushhour.
It will take a fair amount of time before he is up to speed with my usually hectic lifestyle, so we’ll be playing it by ear for a while, but so far so good …
Another birthday, another bonanza!
When a beloved friend prepares a lovely birthday surprise, there comes a time when you just gotta return that favour with all the creative zeal you can muster … which admittedly isn’t always that much in my case
So, last Thursday, the three of us intrepid birthday celebrators gathered in the hallowed hallway of the falling-down house to begin another string of birthday jollities.
First up, a cup of tea. Where else do all good birthdays begin?
Then off down our local for a very delicious meal. Good food and good company … though not necessarily in that order.
After dinner, just when all normal people would be winding down with a hot milky drink ready for a middle-aged kind of turning in, we youngsters were only just beginning! The doorbell rang … the guests arrived … the minging gingerbread roibos was brewed, and multitudinous cards were unveiled. Ah how we laughed!
Friday morning found us at one of Canterbury’s top cooked breakfast haunts (Cafe Venezia on Palace Street, for those of you local enough to try it). They do a very scrummy full English.
From thence, we sallied forth to the shops, and perused a lot of jewellery. For the most part we were all unenamoured of the big chunky ‘you could ‘ave someone’s eye out with that’ stuff on offer, but the hunting was fun.
Lunch was cake at Starbucks (what else?), and eventually we made it to the final surprise element of the day … a good old Canterbury boat tour!
I have blogged about this all-surpassingly glorious tourist experience before in these twists and turns of mine (here), so I won’t bore you with it all again, save to say this time we had the pleasure of Tom’s bottom instead of George’s
The boys, I’m sure, both have equally fine posteriors!
So then we headed for the station, since ongoing life was calling, but we did manage to stop in at the Goods Shed (Canterbury’s farmers’ market) to pick up some … well … goodies (not farmers!) to take on the train with us.
I am truly blessed with some very wonderful friends. Occasions like these are the reminder that, no matter how complicated life (and even friendship) becomes, we have been given something very precious in the people God has put around us, and we should stop and enjoy them from time to time.
Order out of Chaos
With things progressing so well in the big old house, we have reached another milestone (or perhaps it’s prophetic that I just typed ‘millstone’ by mistake ). We are clearing out our middle room. This may sound inane to you, but to us it is full of meaning. The ‘middle room’ is the smelly, dusty glory hole in which all the boxes we haven’t unpacked since we arrived two years ago have been languishing. But now, what with the hall, stairs and landings about to be carpeted, it’s time to shift the dusty lot into its new home in the attic.
So, for several weeks now, every spare moment of life (or so it seems) has been spent opening boxes, moving boxes, unpacking boxes, repacking boxes, destroying boxes and storing boxes. One of my beloved fellow house-dwellers congratulated me this evening on how far I have got with it all as “it would all just make me want to scream”. But for me, this activity is probably closest to the essence of who I am than almost anything else.
I love order. I love tidiness. I love a place for everything and everything in its place. Where there is mess, Lord, let me bring your order … that is my prayer.
Makes me sound dull, I know, but truly I’m not You see, to like bringing order you’ve gotta be up for diving into a bit of mess first.
Well, if I’m one for tidiness, I’m also one for believing that life isn’t a set of separate distinct compartments, but one glorious tapestry that all connects together in the weirdest and most wonderful ways. And this week, my box bonanza has taken on new meaning.
On Tuesday evening I received a text saying that my work colleague Jo had been rushed into hospital with what later turned out to be a severe aneurysm. No warning … no prior illness … we’d spent a very cheerful and hard-working weekend together just a couple of days before. And suddenly she was in a coma in intensive care. How does that happen!
To say Jo is my colleague is to sell her way short. I’m a firm believer that Jesus still sends his disciples out in twos, and it was very definitely Jo he sent me out with all those years ago when I first started my job with The Salvation Army. I have many wonderful friends an colleagues through that work, but Jo has been there as my ‘two-by-two’ from the very first day. So it’s been a painful week one way and another.
By Thursday a whole bunch of us had agreed to spend the day fasting, and due to some convenient work cancellations I was able to do my fasting at home. The only question really was, which room to use? Usually my prayer room would be the attic, but as I may already have mentioned once or twice, the attic is full of boxes!
However, the attic does also contain my key ability to listen to music, and that’s important to me when I pray, so I decided to endeavour to turn my back on the boxes for a few hours, and get before God in serious prayer.
And that’s when the next problem arose. I realised that, undisciplined though it may make me, I simply can’t ignore things that need sorting, tidying and ordering. So instead of ignoring the boxes, I kept finding myself elbow-deep in them.
For a few minutes it occurred to me that I could condemn myself for this, but then I remembered that self-condemnation is frowned upon in the good book, so I decided to make the most of it, rather than making the least of me.
And it turned out to be one of the best days of prayer I’ve ever had … more focused, more prayerful, more meaningful than many others I’ve done. As I waded through the chaos, seeking to bring some semblance of spacial peace and order, I found my prayers resonating all the way. God, this is a mess! God how did we get here! God it all feels so huge and tough and hopeless, but God you don’t give up. You press on and you stick at it and you bring us through. Your Spirit brought order out of chaos at creation, and you can do it again today in Jo’s brain.
I sang into the boxes. I cried into the boxes. I prayed into the boxes. And at the end of it all I had that amazing feeling you sometimes get when you’ve wrestled in prayer … that feeling that you’ve managed to tune into the cause of Heaven for a while.
At time of writing, Jo is doing well. But there is a way to go yet, and for me there are still boxes to sort, so the journey together goes on.
Carpets, multi-foil and crushed almonds
I’m walking on carpet, woooo-oooh!
It’s high time for a house rennovation update, I think.
Happy Birthday to Me!
I am officially half-way to my three-score years and ten. That fact doesn’t bother me in the least. I am the only person I know who is enjoying getting older. I was actually flattered last year when someone genuinely believed I was forty. I’m assuming that’s just one of the many freedoms accorded to me by not having to be infected by our society’s ridiculous obsession with looking thin and youthful. Bring on the middle-age spread, that’s what I say!
Blessed Builders
And you know what? I actually mean it. They are blessed. We have only really dealt with one building firm during our renovations, but we really could not have asked for a better. They have been organised, communicative and extremely helpful. If you’re in the area, I’d heartily recommend them. Just drop me a line and I’ll give you their details.
