Trash Your Old Copies

I feel guilty because I hate wasting paper. I feel sad because I’m like the woman who arranged for a professional family photo to be taken, popped a copy in Christmas cards to friends, then wrote to them begging them to destroy it.

I see nothing wrong with the photo above, and neither did her friends. Well, there was the odd one or two things they spotted when holding the snap up close to their face, but all in all, they appreciated the effort she made in thinking to bless them with this surprise gift.

Similarly, you may have received a free copy of one of my books back in 2019 or 2020, and likewse, it was a total surprise. However, I must ask you to forgive me for sounding rather blunt. Please bin it.

“Why on earth would I do that?” you say with fathomable alarm.

I hang my head in the shame of having been too impatient and too unobservant to have noticed errors or things that just didn’t seem right. Maybe I’m a perfectionist like the woman in the photo, but if something is amiss, I have to correct it.

Typos have been found and grammar mistakes corrected, but more significantly, changes have been made to the content whereby several passages or chapters have been added or edited. Therefore, unless it says on the ISBN page, ‘Revised Edition: Dec 2023’, it’s an old copy.

That is why I’m politely asking you to throw it in the garbage – toss it in the trash.

The beautiful lady on the far left is called Clara. Her daughter is Emily and her husband is Arthur. Most people call the old lady, ‘Grannie’. Clara seems reasonably content and that fur stole looks stunning on her frame. But like me, she’s fretting over that freebie she sent out last month.

Firstly, she wanted to be indoors. It was a chilly January afternoon, but there was a ray of sunshine overhead and it was reflecting on the camera. This made everybody squint and she doesn’t like it.

“Why oh, why didn’t I notice this before I sent out all those copies to my friends?” she wails. “My Arthur looks Japanese!”

The background was wrong too. She wanted to be standing in front of a wall decorated with a light strip of flowers.

She was not keen on her hat either. It was too far down and cast a shadow that made her look sleepy – and she forgot to remove the feather. Flapping about in the wind above her head made her feel like a giant ostrich searching for pilchards.

It had been her daughter’s suggestion to let Grannie join them for the photoshoot, but she wasn’t satisfied with her mother-in-law’s pose because she had insisted on holding her umbrella. Why couldn’t she just put the wretched thing down? When she had confronted her about it, the curt reply had been that her son was doing the same, so why wasn’t she bothered about him? It almost caused an argument. Arthur was holding an umbrella for a totally different reason. It was his cane. A gentleman looked distinguished when he walked along with a black sticking swinging in front of him, but she just couldn’t get his mother to understand that.

Then there was her own face. Others would have said it looked fine, and indeed, that was true, but she felt pasty and wished she had pinched her cheeks before the picture was taken. She had removed her gloves to do just that, but the photographer had shouted at her to stop moving. The flash made her wince and she had to steady herself by holding onto her husband’s shoulder. Thankfully this was one aspect of the photograph she didn’t mind. It made her look more loving. But, how she wished they had all positioned themselves in a different way. Given the chance to do it again, she would have made Emily lean against Grannie and moved Arthur to her right hand side.

It takes time to get things right, and I guess this highlights my haste in pressing the “publish” button too early. Please forgive me for my *promptitude. Thankfully for you, there is no need to replace your copy because you can now read all my chapters online, right here. You also have the advantage of having learnt a new *word, which I could have not shared with you had I not needed to write you this little note.

“I already knew what that meant.” you reply rather wrly.

That’s great. You’re more learned than me, because I confess that I had to look it up. It’s not a word I have been familiar with. I don’t like to use big vocabulary at all, and I have an article on that. But I’m going off topic – this post was just to let you know that I have failed in being able to produce a perfect copy of any of my books the first time around. Or the second. Or the third. And now I am paying the price by having to ask you to discard your freebie to the rubbish cart and placate you by suggesting an alternative action would be, to make paper aeroplanes. Origami is a fantastic way of easing one’s guilt for disrespecting trees.

There is one consolation for me in all this woe. I love to laugh at myself and I enjoy learning from my (many) mistakes. Also, thankfully for me, I do not suffer from kakorrhaphiophobia.

Happy shaping.

Much love,

Epilogue: About You

He hasn’t taken his eyes off you. He’s looking at you even now. It’s not a surface stare; he’s seeing deep into the core of your being. Whether you like the thought of what he’s viewing or not, it doesn’t faze him. The ugliness, the dross, the yukky bits that you think outweigh the beauty.

Don’t squirm. He’s the one person who sees you in your entirety and can bear it. Nothing turns his stomach, because he loves you. Yes, it saddens him when you hurt his feelings by ignoring him, but he’s not ignoring you.

You’ve forgotten some parts of your childhood, either owing to natural causes, age or deliberation. Most likely, all three.

But he was there. In the good times and bad. In the trauma and with the laughter and celebrations. In the disappointments and fears, fun times and tears.

The day when you became a zygote, he knew you intimately. Every cell was carefully put together, alongside your basic personality and he loved you. Yes, he loved you from the very start and despite how you’ve been since, he loves you still.

His compassion for you is not like that of mankind. It is not conditional on your love for him, the good things you do or how you’ve turned out to be.

No matter who ignores you, you are worth listening to. No matter who thinks you’re boring, you are interesting. No matter who finds you irritating, you are accepted. No matter who dislikes you, you are cherished. No matter who’s given up on you, you are constantly on his mind.

His intense focus on you is as if you were the only human he ever created.

I hope your childhood was a good one. Millions cannot look back on those tender days with joy. Whatever your memories, know this one thing: The One who put your body together knows about every single second of your life.

Whether you’re a child or 106, we are all regarded by him as precious. He wants to be your father, but you must come as you are. Don’t wait until you have perfected certain things about yourself, because you will never get there.

He’s big enough to help you put things right.

Isn’t it wonderful that we don’t have to present him with our intellect and talents? Children have food stains on their chest, but we still hug them. (Well, I don’t if it’s not my child – who wants to nuzzle a soggy bib? But you get what I mean don’t you?) They wee on the floor like puppies, but we still love them. (Again, let’s just focus on our own children.) They crawl across the floor towards us, dragging a book that they want us to read and explain. We pick them up, not giving thought to the torn pages and teeth marks on the edges. We don’t care that they are having a bowel movement while they sit happily on our laps. Hey, you do realise that I’m referring to babies, not teenagers? I’m not sure if I clarified that earlier.

So, God wants us to come to him with a childlike heart. Like my sweet Sarah on the next page, he wants us to look up to him with complete trust. He wants us to be uninhibited with him like a toddler streaking on the beach, running excitedly towards the sea.

If you wish to have your sins forgiven so you will escape going to Hell when you die, God has made it easy for you because he wants you to be in Heaven with him. Our sins have separated us from a holy God who originally created us to be perfect but knew we would mess up. Getting right with God is called, ‘being saved’ and the process of getting saved is called salvation. Christians use those terms a lot.

The Bible says,

If you openly declare that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. (Romans 10:9)

Here’s a simple prayer that covers everything you need in order to be saved from your sins. We were all created to be a team, so I am delighted to share with you a prayer that the singer Ce Ce Winans used in her YouTube song, “I Have a Savior”.

“Dear Heavenly Father, I come to you in the name of your son, Jesus. I believe that he died on the cross for my sins. And I believe on the third day, you raised him from the grave. I confess I’m a sinner, but I believe you’re my Saviour. Forgive me of my sins. I invite you into my heart. Be the Lord of my life for the rest of my life. Fill me with your Holy Spirit so I would be empowered to live a life that’s pleasing to you. In Jesus’ name I pray, amen.”

It’s wonderful that God wants us to have a relationship with us and that he beckons us to approach him like a child. It’s great, it’s fantastic, because we already know…

…God loves children!

Bombs, Banks & Bodyless Friends

Now here’s a funny thing.

When people ask me what I do in my spare time, I tell them that I am a writer and then, more often than not, I regret my hasty speech.

Being connected to over 1000 writers on LinkedIn, I’m aware that most of them have self-published at least four books apiece. Therefore, to them, my hobby is no cause for surprise.

Non-writers however, always seem aghast when they learn of my penchant for words. This is particularly true of Christians. The conversation often goes something like this:

Person: “So what do you do?”

Me: “Well, I er…I am I’m a writer.”

Person: “Oh really? What do you write?”

Me: “I have a couple of blogs. And I write books.

Person: Oh. So have you published any?

ME: Yes.

Person: “Ooh. What type of books do you write?”

Me: “Christian books.”

That is the moment when said Person physically recoils. Almost every time, I notice a jerking of the head backwards and a sharp intake of breath, followed by a quick change of subject, or a rapid wave across the room to an imaginary best buddy who has suddenly come into their view.

Seriously, the amount of aparitions that make an apearance in those moments is quite astounding. One minute they have no physical body and cannot be seen. Then, mention you publish Christian material, and a ghost emerges with their index finger extended and curling upwards, drawing the person to finish our conversation and come towards them in a flurry.

I am left in a haze of bewilderment, as I quickly recap my behaviour, manner and tone of voice.

Did I sound cocky, arrogant, proud? Did I seem smug? I never detail the amount of books I’ve published, but does the fact that I mention I write, still register as boastful and totally unacceptable speech?

It is Christians who act this way, so there wouldn’t have been any fear that I was going to pin them up against the wall and preach to them about their soul salvation.

As I am never given the chance during the expeditious conversation to explain what my books are about, I can only come to my own conclusions as to why each person reacts in such an abashed manner.

I am assuming therefore, that there is a stereotypical connotation attached to the term ‘Christian books’ and that it may seem to the layperson that I am saying I consider myself to have delusions of grandeur, whereby I believe I am called to lecture, preach, condemn and reprimand all those within my reach.

Maybe Christians who don’t feel called to put pen to paper, but are given authority by their church to stand on a lectern and deliver a sermon or lead a house group, think I am unqualified to write down things pertaining to godliness and living a life with Jesus. They haven’t done so, so why should I?

Or, is it the fear of being pushed into a corner and being bombarded with a choleric sales pitch?

Maybe, at that point, there is an imaginary, dreaded conversation that is playing in their minds that goes something like this:

Person: “So what are your books actually about?”

Me: “Well… that would be too difficult to explain, so you’ll have to buy all of them in order to find out. I tell you what, give me your number and I will send you the links to Amazon where you can download them, or for a small fee of such and such, you can get the physical copies. Have you got a bookshelf at home? Ah yes, I seem to recall that your relative said you did.

Well, they will look wonderful complementing the rest of your bibles and commentaries. In fact, why don’t you give me your e-mail address and I’ll put you on a mailing list and every two weeks I will send you 5 spams telling you about the new ideas running around my brain. And just think, if you get copies for your brother’s birthday and your dad’s anniversary and your cousin’s christening, you would make me very wealthy indeed – and aren’t we called to bless one another?

Not only that, my friend, but you will have the chance to become a writer yourself, by doing me a whole load of spiffing reviews, on the internet.

Oh how exciting this is! You could become my greatest fan! Thank you so much for offering to help me in this way. I’m so glad I bumped into you today – must have been a divine appointment.”

Person: ” Er… I am not er…I haven’t…didn’t…”

Me: “No worries, no worries. I know what you were going to say and that’s fine. I understand. I am  so deeply grateful!”

Yup. I am sure this is a dreaded scenario running around in the mind of some.

Moving on, this kind of reminds me of times in the past when my sister and I used to go on holiday together. We would meet up with a lovely couple and at some point, they would ask the inevitable:

“Are you both working or at college? Oh working. That’s nice. What do you do?”

I would hesitate, while my older sister would reply:

“I am a nurse.”

Sweet couple: “Ah, how lovely!”

Sister: “A neonatal nurse. I work in the Special Care Baby Unit because I look after premature babies.”

Sweet Couple would hold their hands up to their heart and inhale slowly, then their eyes would moisten as they exhaled an emotional,

“Teeny weeny babies! Fragile mites! What an amazing job! How compassionate and caring! You’re an angel!”

They would then turn to me with such expectancy that it seemed they were hoping I’d say:

“And I’m a mortician who embalms the ones who don’t make it.”

Instead, they would get a simple:

“I work in a bank.”

Now…no matter how sweetly I tried to put it, I would always get the same response 100% of the time:

Which bank?”

Never have I seen such instant fear in the eyes of a stranger. They would push their neck forward like a pigeon and not blink until they had received my answer.

Me: “HSBC”

Sweet couple: (sighing with relief) “Phew! Not my bank!”

But what if it had been? On the rare occasions when Unfortunate Sweet Couple hadn’t been astute enough to move their fortunes to Barclays, and did actually have a bank account at HSBC, they would either begin to explain why they were overdrawn, or try to justify why there was so much money sitting in their current account.

Panicky Sweet Couple: “My aunt’s just died you see, and she left us some money in her will. Plus we’re in the process of selling her house, so we can’t put it away in the savings until that’s sorted. We’re not greedy people. We’re not rich. We’re just in the middle of working with the probate.”

No, did I know any of this previously. No, there would not be any ways I could have found this out by myself. Indeed, people seemed to think that if they had a bank account with the same company where I worked, that somehow, I had an internal database that detailed the entire customer base and with just one blink, I could recall their every financial transaction, even if we hadn’t yet exchanged names.

Here’s another illustration: At school, there was a boy in my class called Andrew Stewart, who was interested in explosives. Each time a career teacher asked him what he wanted to do when he was older, he would reply with a big grin:

“Bomb disposal.”

Teachers gave him a wide berth, and those who couldn’t move out of his way quick enough, gave funny looks as he walked by.

I don’t know if young Andrew got his wish, but what I do know is, in the 30 or more years since we left school, there has been so many attacks of terrorism, that governments from all across the world would have been crying out for people like Andrew, who in reality, had a noble yearning to support humanity. His desire in life was to detonate weapons in order to save the lives of millions.

My conclusion to all this is, when someone tells you what their job is, what they enjoy doing in their spare time, or what they desire to do in the future, don’t judge them on their words or your stereotypical view of what that means. Instead, I challenge you to ask them some more questions and you may find out that their answer isn’t so terrifying.

For me, my answer is: My books were written to encourage fellow Christians on their journey with Jesus, especially the depressed, the lonely, the confused, the rejected and the hurting. Some contain stories about my own failures, mistakes and silly things I’ve done. Some stories detail deep hurts and explains how God turned every single one of them around for the good. There are evangelistic chapters designed for those who do not yet know Jesus, and there are sinners prayers dotted around to give them the chance to get right with God immediately. Some books include difficult subjects such as, civil war, growing old, gang rape, burglary, abortion, singleness, dating, child abandonment, child neglect, racism, church snobbery, fears, insecurities, long-term sickness and parenting fails.

There are humorous tales of what life was like working in a Christian bookshop and my ex colleagues who all got a free copy, loved it. I also have a humongous volume of Christian drama sketches based on bible stories and they are all in rhyme. I’m not bragging, but it is a fantastic book for Christian drama teachers. Okay, so maybe here, you would want to do the ‘change subject, walk away, wave to imaginary friend’ thing, because I admit I’m beginning to sound a little sales-pitchey.

All in all, they were written to bless you – not to make me look good, or to line my pockets. And boy, did I have fun making them! I love what I do and I’m not ashamed that my verbosity has lead to me putting things into print.

So, if we meet face to face one day and you ask me what I do, I’m not going to back you into a corner. I promise.

I have never done that, and if per chance, I knew what was in your bank account, I wouldn’t tell a soul.

Much love,

All Videos From This Website

There are several videos scattered around this website, on various different posts and pages – so here they are altogether, for easy access:

Welcome Video (from Homepage)

About Me

The Benefits of Reading (How To Boost your Memory & Stimulate Your Brain)

Why You Make God Smile (despite your faults and weaknesses) Volume 1

God Loves Children

Life In a Christian Bookshop

Why You Make God Smile (despite your faults and weaknesses) Volume 2

https://youtu.be/Tei5OHDfFJs?si=7BQhSK0dfhdaHZQ_

A Manly Man – What is this book about?

A Manly Man – Chapter 1 (Part 1/8)

A Manly Man – Chapter 1 (Part 2/8)

A Manly Man – Chapter 1 (Part 3/8)

A Manly Man – Chapter 1 (Part 4/8)

A Manly Man – Chapter 1 (Part 5/8)

A Manly Man – Chapter 1 (Part 6/8)

A Manly Man – Chapter 1 (Part 7/8)

A Manly Man – Chapter 1 (Finale)

For videos on DEPRESSION, click here.

Preface

When I was younger, I vowed that I would never wear bi-focal spectacles and I would never get to the top of the stairs and wonder what I was doing there. Those pledges have come true, for I am in the living room wondering why I came downstairs and I’m peering over my glasses at a piece of paper, not knowing what it is doing in my hand.

This is a good reminder for me, that we don’t have long here on earth and that each day, we are one step closer to our demise.

With this in mind, I don’t want to waste my time chasing the wrong things.

While I am trying to cultivate a close relationship with my Creator, there is a constant battle to avoid the distractions that have crept into godly circles, such as, cravings for applause, fame, appreciation, social media followers, royalties, subscribers, and awards.

We are living in an age where it seems that so much focus has been placed on getting earthy rewards for heavenly pursuits.

Some of you will find me boring and that’s okay. Others will think they can do a better job and you are correct. Others still, will not agree with things I say or the way in which I’ve said it and that’s fine too, because we are all different.

The reason I am sat here churning out another book, is because I love inspiring people to see how God is constantly trying to communicate with us using every-day situations.  But millions of other people are doing the same thing in their own special way. It’s great to know that we are all part of a bigger picture that is unfolding into a masterpiece that says, ‘God loves you.’

Also, I think I am one of those people who are a little bit slow in getting the message. When Jesus made-up stories to illustrate a divine point, it was for brains like mine. I’m so glad his mission wasn’t to reconciliate with the intellectual, the quintessential and the holy.

He came into this world to connect with ordinary folk like you and I –

Knowing what our nature is really like is a good starting point. God loves to use the simple and understated things to reveal his majesty and glory. He warns us:

Therefore, let the one who thinks he stands firm, immune to temptation, being overconfident and self-righteous, take care that he does not fall into sin and condemnation. (1 Corinthians 10:12)

Maybe that is why he uses children so much. We have a lot to learn from them and a lot to learn about him, from them.

Introduction

I stood in the bus station awaiting my coach to London. A middle-aged man in a chequered flat cap and long, beige raincoat plonked his suitcases down next to mine and began talking to me about the impending journey. Underneath his raincoat was a smart tweed jacket and trousers that had crisp, vertical folds running down the middle; looking so sharp, that I’m sure one could use them as a guillotine blade.

He had a posh, southern accent, reminiscent of somebody who has spent their weekends dining with the Queen. His friendly, jolly manner made me warm to him and we chatted happily for several minutes.

Two toddlers were running around the waiting area while their parents sat together on the metal benches.

All of a sudden, the man glared at the tots and grimaced. Eyes that once displayed joviality, narrowed like they were peering through blurred binoculars. His once mellow tone changed to a gravely, fearful voice as he leant towards my ear and whispered,

“I’m going to wait and see where those children sit and then choose a seat as far away from them as possible. I hate bl***y kids!”

“You were one once.” I mused.

“That’s why I hate them.” He retorted. “I prefer dogs.”

He is not alone. Many people would indeed prefer to be in the company of a canine rather than a child, but I wondered what triggered this irrational fear in such a distinguished English gentleman. Were his school years plagued with bullies? Did he come from a large, boisterous family where there were not enough rooms to retreat to his own space?

Observing his guilty glance towards the ceiling, encouraged me to assume a different theory.

He had been the tormentor. The annoying little brother, the stroppy older sibling or the irritating infant whose bad behaviour tested the nerves of every adult who crossed his path.

Yes, no doubt he was remembering what he had been like and maybe up till now, he felt he hadn’t suffered full retribution for his past felonies.

This was the time, he pondered, that the gates will be swung wide open, and a torrent of torture will pour down on him in the way of these two children, who will turn into little imps as soon as he sits down near them.

I watched the youngest child fling a Jelly Tots packet to the floor and push his sister out of the way so that he could be next to his mother. He then extended his forefinger and shoved it so far up his tiny nose that I’m sure I spotted the fingernail protruding out of his left eye.

Umm… maybe this man’s fears were justified. But people, no matter how undesirable they may seem while in their juvenile years, can reform beautifully.

My travelling companion may well have been a tiny terror, but hadn’t he resisted the urge to pull my hair, stick chewing gum under the seats, cough in my face and wipe his runny nose across the length of his tweed jacket? He possessed a handkerchief which he used, he possessed good manners which he used also.

No matter what negative opinions you may have towards the youngest people of our planet, God loves them immensely and sees the end from the beginning. He doesn’t just see the dross but the beauty lying beneath it.

Although this book is not about what God thinks about children in its entirety, they are the influence and inspiration behind it. Most of the accounts are true stories or based on real life events that have occurred, all of which involve children. It fascinates me how often God uses these precious little ones to speak to our hearts, even if some of them aren’t so small anymore. So, whether you are a parent of a small child, a parent whose kids are now grown up, childless, or not yet an adult yourself, I would like to invite you to sit back and enjoy the tales that have been born out of experiences with these wonderful beings, who although not yet fully developed in stature and brain,  are very significant to God, because he cherishes them dearly.

Newborn: Midnight Mishap

I know we should never put ourselves down, but boy, I can be right stupid at times.

Just before the birth of my firstborn, I was invited to the hospital to look around the birthing suite and to have the opportunity to ask any burning questions. At one point, the midwife began talking about nappy changing and said,

“Here’s something you need to know. As the first couple of poos are very sticky, it’s difficult to clean the baby, so use this.”

She held up a tub of Vaseline (petroleum jelly) and said,

“If you put this on first, then it will be easier for you to wipe off the poo. Put loads of it on and then you will find your job much easier.”

I made a mental note of her valuable advice and purchased a tub as soon as I got home. After my daughter Sarah was born, I awoke to a crying sound coming from the end of my hospital bed. She had been the only child on the ward to have woken up 3 times in the night and I wearily switched on my side light and dashed to her cot.

On inspection of her nappy, it was clear that the dreaded ‘first manoeuvre’ had occurred, so I rummaged through my things to find the Vaseline pot. Remembering that the midwife had instructed us to smear it on first, I dug out a large clump and popped it on top of the green stuff that was all over her bottom and up her back. As I spread the jelly with my fingers, the mess seemed to be getting worse. Wanting to follow everybody’s advice to the letter, I grabbed a bag of cotton wool pads with my elbow, placed it across my tummy and with the other elbow (my hands were covered in muck, remember) tried to get a few out of the polythene bag. For, my older sister was a neonatal nurse and had told me that baby-wipes should never be used on a new-born baby.

“Only cotton wool for the first few weeks.” She had told me.

As I smeared the cotton wool pads across the skin, large pieces of fluff stuck to the goo. This was not working!

I rubbed up and down, round and round and the goo followed my fingers and stopped where they stopped. It clung to the baby’s body and to my hands and certainly was not coming off smoothly the way I had been told it would. A lady in the bed opposite groaned because the light had been on for so long and her little tot was beginning to stir.

“Sorry!” I whispered loudly. “I’m in a bit of a mess.”

I looked down at Sarah who with so much cotton wool stuck to her skin, looked like a mouldy sheep. Fluffy, white, with bits of green seeping through everywhere. It was no use – I had to ring for a nurse.

The door slung open wide, and an agitated female entered the room. She glanced at Sarah and gasped in horror.

“What are you doing?!”

“Er, I was, I er, well I’m trying to change her nappy, but I er, I’m struggling a bit.”

“Haven’t you got any baby wipes?” She retorted angrily, still too shocked at the sight before her to move any closer.

“Yes, but my sister said to use cotton wool on new-borns and the midwife said to put Vaseline on top of the first few poos to make it come off easily but it’s er…”

Her angry glare silenced me.

“I don’t know what you’re doing, but I’ve never heard of that before. People generally use baby wipes. That’s what they are for! Use your wipes!”

I was about to ask her to help me clean myself and Sarah up, but she was gone in a flash.

With the slam of the door, (yes, for some strange reason, maternity nurses don’t seem to care about disturbing babies) she disappeared. I grabbed the wipes, cleaned ourselves up, and sheepishly crawled back into my bed.

But I lay there wondering why the midwife’s trick hadn’t worked. Did I use the wrong brand of petroleum jelly? Had I not perfected the swipe properly? Was there something wrong with my child?

It was not until my husband arrived in the morning, that the penny dropped.

Umm…, I think what the midwife meant was, you were supposed to apply the Vaseline before she dirtied her nappy. So that there will be a protective barrier on her skin which will prevent the poo from sticking so hard. Do you see?”

“Ah!” I muttered as I slunk down under my covers in embarrassment. “Of course!”

Not necessarily with the exact thing I did, because let’s face it, that is a ridiculous blunder, solely reserved for those like me, who don’t always think things through. But maybe, you are also cringing at a first-time mum mistake?

Other mothers might have got the nappy changing bit right. Perfect swipe, perfect fit. Not too big that it’s falling to their ankles when grandma rushes to pick it up at visiting time – not too tight that the baby’s navel turns blue and the umbilical clamp disappears into its intestines.

But some of the, not-so-maternally-challenged, stare at the screwed-up face of their newly-arrived offspring and think, “Well, I guess it looks like that because we were once chimpanzees.” They ponder on the apparent big bang that occurred in the atmosphere billions of years ago, producing frogs that crawled on their bellies and humans who acted like primates.

You and I have never gawped at a young child and considered that its new-born ugliness is owing to simian origins.

I looked at my sweet daughter and thanked the Creator God for making her. I knew that I had played a minuscule part in her coming into being. Somebody great and amazing formed her heart and made it start beating at only 6 weeks. Other complex organs were formed, together with limbs and multiple cells. This didn’t occur because of a cosmic accident.

So yes, I’m a fool to think that I can clean an infant’s bottom with lashings of petroleum jelly, and you may have done something stupid too. But be encouraged. Many ‘perfect yummy mummies’ believe that their kid’s ancestors were stooping apes.

 Ah, now we don’t look so daft after all, do we?

Toddler Years: Tantrums R Us

She was barely 18 months old, yet as I entered the living room, the wail sounded like it was coming from the lungs of a burly teenager.

My visit to my sister Michelle was an unexpected one. I had popped round on the off chance that her and her little lassie would be in, and I had envisaged them snuggled up together on the sofa, watching a fun cartoon.

Young Isabel, however, was sat on the bare laminate flooring, away from the plush rug, looking like she’d landed there after falling through the ceiling or been part of a magic trick where one suddenly emerges from an odd place.

With legs outstretched in front of her and arms motionless by her side, she faced the open doorway that leads into the kitchen. Inside, her mum was standing with her back to her, silently washing up a pile of dishes.

Strange.

Michelle’s arms were elbow-deep in a sink of hot, soapy suds, yet her daughter was dressed as if they were about to go out.

The house was very warm, yet Isabel resembled a snowman. A thick, woolly hat was on her head and it was fastened with a strap beneath her chin. A large lilac pom-pom bobbed about on its pinnacle like a balloon tied to the top of a tent. Every time Izzy inhaled deeply in order to exhale an even louder yowl than before, it wobbled precariously from side to side.

She had on a winter coat that was buttoned up to the neck and a scarf draped around it in a knot. Elastic that was threaded through the arm holes were attached to mittens that were hiding her hands. Thick, white tights clung tightly to her chubby legs and her shoes were fastened with shiny buckles.

“Hello Isabel,” I interrupted. “what’s wrong?”

Like an arthritic owl, Izzy slowly turned her head around 180 degrees, and looked up at me. She momentarily went quiet, but her mouth remained wide open as if she had been inflicted with Lockjaw. Stood before her was another adult who most likely would not be the desired accomplice she needed. As I was of no use to her plight, her head swivelled back round to face her mother and the howling resumed at higher pitch.

Stepping forward, I could see a pained expression on her face that indicated she was failing at getting her own way. She blinked hard so that a tear plopped onto her red cheek, but something about her posture and gaze told me that this was more owing to anger than sadness. This wasn’t a lonely moment. This wasn’t an ‘I’m in pain and need a hug!’ scenario. It was a story of, ‘I want it now!’

Her mother, who had not even dared to turn around to greet me, was doing her utmost to ignore her. By the jerky way in which she was handling the wares and the speed at which cutlery was being thrown into the plastic tray, my suspicions were confirmed.

Her firstborn was having a mighty tantrum. Another one. And my poor sis’ was doing her best to ensure that she won this round.

It was also evident that prior to my arrival, they had planned to go for a lovely mother-daughter walk in the crisp air and wintery sunshine. Something had ‘kicked off’ causing the behaviour of this cute, but strong-willed tot to rapidly decline. Michelle had decided that Izzy will have to wait, but my determined niece was having none of it. She wanted her recent misdemeanour to be instantly overlooked so that she could have her treat.

As Isabel continued with her Oscar-winning performance, I wanted to laugh. For some reason, the naughtiness of other people’s kids is far more amusing than that of one’s own – in fact, if it had been my Sarah acting in this way, I would not have been the slightest bit amused.

I wondered how many times I had hollered at God because he did not do as I had asked. How often had he withheld something from me because I had proved too immature to receive it? Like Izzy, had I refused to accept that there are consequences for bad behaviour? Had I continued to be immature and throw a dreadful tantrum?

For the Lord disciplines and corrects those whom he loves, and he punishes every son whom he receives and welcomes into his heart. (Hebrews 12:6)

I’m sure there have been plenty times when I have spiritually misbehaved.  The only thing is, when I do it, I don’t look as cute.

Toddler Years: Giving In To Fear

At the checkout in a bargain store, a toddler was sitting in a large trolley. His parents were being served and it was evident that they were purchasing many goods. One of the items on the conveyor belt was a pack of 5 Cadburys Crème Eggs. The boy’s mouth was smothered in brown sludge, indicating that he had recently consumed a chocolate delicacy. But he was shouting, “Egg!” very loudly. With both arms stretched out wide, he flexed his sticky fingers while glaring angrily at this mother. The dad was standing behind the trolley and doing nothing to pacify his son.

“Egg!” “Egg!” “Egg!” “Egg!” “Egg!” “Egg!”

This continued for several minutes.

Being strapped into the trolley seat, he was unable to do any damage, but his little body began to rock violently back and forth as he thrashed his legs against the metal bars.

 “Ehhhhhgg!”

His mother could stand it no longer and reached out for the chocolates that had not yet been paid for. She asked the cashier to scan them quickly and promptly began to open the box. Laminated cardboard in shades of purple, yellow and red, flew onto the floor as customers watched the mother frantically shove a foiled oval ball into her child’s hands.

“There you go Poppet.”

Poppet? Poppet? That’s what I call my child when she’s being sweet! He was acting like a quintessential brat.

Customers began shaking their heads and muttering things like,

“My child would be made to wait!”

“If that was my kid, he’d be getting no egg!”

A particular worry that seems prevalent amongst many parents, is the fear of scolding, reprimanding and chastising their children, because they think this will make them grow up to hate them. I’m not talking about being overly strict or abusing them, I mean, knowing when to say ‘No’ or ‘Wait’ or ‘You are not getting that now because you are behaving badly.’

It is sad when we as parents fail to realise that our children’s anger towards us is part of human nature and if we pander to their wilful ways, it won’t make them love us all the more.

The little boy was neither starving hungry, nor neglected. He now knows that if he makes enough fuss, he can have what he wants, even though it is not necessarily good for him. Aren’t many adults like that? I wonder how that began?

I am so grateful for all the no’s my parents gave me. Yes, I still wish I had been given that pogo stick, space hopper and Katie Kopycat doll for Christmas. Up until about the age of 11, each birthday I secretly wished that one of those 3 toys would emerge from the wrapping paper. But, my life is none the worse for having been deprived of them as a child. 

Besides, I got my space hopper in the end. On my 34th birthday, my house mate presented me with the most amazing, yellow, bouncy ball. As I clung to its wobbly ears, I had many jolly days prancing around the living room.

The grin on my face was larger than the one on the ball, and each time I remembered that I was no longer in my primary years, I told myself it was a good workout for the heart and lungs and muscle exercise for the legs.

However, I never realised how hard they would be to steer. After knocking plenty of vases over, one day I crashed into the sofa, leaving large bruises on my shins. Ah, now I know why my mum wouldn’t let me have all the things I had asked for. We lived in a small apartment with no garden, so I would have been bobbing up and down in the living room, where the television would have ended up on the floor, and the pogo stick would have impaled the ceiling.

There are many things I still crave to possess in my life that I know won’t necessarily bless me in the way I hope they would; and I have to force myself to think maturely and accept that we shouldn’t always obtain what we want.

I am trying to be patient. I am trying to not flex my fingers at God and shout something like, “Egg!” at him in the hope that he will instantly adhere to my demands.

Nobody likes a spoilt child, but let’s be honest, a spoilt adult is even worse.

What’s It Like Being An Author?

Being an author is hard. It is considerably different to being a blogger. It’s a bit like being a contestant on a singing competition show, where contestants compete against each other to win a recording contract prize at the end.

Some singers have a pleasant voice and can carry a tune, but they struggle to hit the high notes and have no breath control whatsoever. Others have the quivery, vibrato thing occurring in their voice box, but can’t keep the melody going. They have to train. They need a vocal coach to teach them the finer points and an agent to show them how to present themselves on stage.

Thus, being able to sing and being a successful singer are two different things entirely. When somebody walks into the audition room and looks over at the judges with a desperate glare, I often wonder if they realise that becoming a famous singer means being a performer who is emotionally and physically fit enough to go on tour for a whole year, belting out multiple songs a night to an audience that has given up a large proportion of their hard-earned money to purchase a ticket and be enthralled by their presence. Okay, you can sing, but can you entertain?

I love reading blogs and I’m always encouraging my favourite writers to gather a collecton of their posts and turn them into books. But this can be a scary venture, especilaly when most people have to go down the route of self-publishing.

Robbie Williams is a great example of somebody who proved that he can not only be part of a cute pop band, but be a star in his own right. Gary Barlow also found his own niche very quickly. Who knows if the other members could have had the same success? Maybe they expected it to be as easy as it was for the first two and gave up when disillusionment took its toll.

Secondly, there are a few singers who are so gifted that they haven’t had to do much training in order to wow the public. Jackie Evancho and Bianca Ryan come to mind. They opened their mouths as children, and sounded like they’d been warbling perfectly for decades. Those of you who are old enough will remember how amazing it was when the petite Lena Zavaroni made her debut on Opportunity Knocks back in the 70s. But most people are not like that. They have to work very diligently to get their voice, image and status on point.

Writing blogs and articles is a great way for a potential author to begin, and it helps refine their skills, but this isn’t a guarantee that their first book will be perfect.  When I first started churning out books, I thought they were the finished article. It was not until I arranged to have a physical copy of each title sent to my home, that I realised there was much to be edited in each. Some books have been republished 4 times – others, about 12. Yes, my friends, it can take that long before an author is truly happy with their work.

I have learnt that writing a book is a longer process than just editing a manuscript, proofreading it, correcting grammatical errors and choosing an eye-catching image for the front cover.

Verbosity

Firstly, one has to ensure that one does not fall into the trap of become too verbose. Nobody wants to plough through the next edition of, ‘War and Peace’. As difficult as it can be, I try to stick to my motto:

“Get to the point, and quickly.”

My favourite non-fiction books are the ones that have short, concise chapters and are written in a way that is easy to read, put down, and pick up again without losing the thread of where you were. This is what I try to do, because I am my worst critic. As an author, you have to be.

Who still reads?

Connected to this, is the importance of making your work visual. What I mean is, draw the reader in so that they can visualise what you are describing, whether it’s an emotion, an interaction between two people or an environment. We live in an age where humans prefer to be entertained by what they can see moving in front of them, not by what they are reading. You have to ask yourself, “Why would I buy this book?” “Why would I put down my phone to read it?” “Why would I be proud to give it to somebody as a gift?”

Emotional technicalities

What I mean by this is, I have to constantly ask myself, “How am I wanting my reader to feel?” If I am trying to make them laugh, is it because I want them to think I am funny, or because I want them to relax, unwind and learn to see that life can still be fun amidst the chaos? And am I really being funny or just silly? Are the serious bits boring? Confusing? A book that makes me feel condemned or judged, is going to remain at the back of my bookshelf, or find its way to the chairty shop pile. The same is true of one that doesn’t flow right, or where the author is trying too hard to be amusing.

Is this biblical?

Being an author is difficult enough, but what is even more complex is when you are penning Christian material – writing books to encourage others in their walk with God and to glorify Jesus. There is a constant checking and rechecking that everything you say is biblically sound, ties-in with scripture, not heretic or dishonouring to the very God you are trying to bless.

Mixed in with that, is the other side of the coin: one cannot get so bogged-down with the dread of being seen as flaky, that one comprises by falling into ‘fear of man’. One has to be firm in their convictions and not be terrified of offending. Expert evangelist, Ray Comfort says that many Christians are so scared of talking about Hell and repentance that they are actually doing unregenerate people a disservice. He states that by only telling people that God loves them, it is like giving a blind man headphones that he turns up so loud that he cannot hear the shouts of warning as he edges towards the cliff face. Yes, people need encouragement, yes, people need to feel good about themselves and inspirational books are wonderful, but somewhere along the line, if you want to do these lost souls justice, you have to quit fearing their anger and tell them the full truth. Hell is real and repentance is an unavoidable necessity of life.

Empathy

The interlocking difficulties continue as one realises that one cannot just shout at people in their books and make them feel like everything is wrong with their life. There are reasons why people do stupid things, make foolish choices, clock up failures by the dozen, and wallow in self-hate and depression. The last thing a Christian writer wants to do, is wound the wounded. Empathy plays such an important part in the world of Christian literature. So, while we mustn’t be sycophantic with our readers, we also mustn’t be too harsh.

Prayer

Thankfully, with much prayer and waiting on the Lord, the Christian author can be happy with the end results of their work. But as you can see from everything described above, this does not happen as fast as one imagines. Writers always have ideas going around their heads, especially ones like me who find people fascinating and see God in so many ordinary situations. But humility is the key. Of course, I am not saying that I am humble, for as soon as one considers themselves to be so, they have fallen back into pride.

All I am saying is, that like with every other type of gift, as a Christian, one has to make sure they stay grounded. Another one of my favourite mottos is:

Don’t become full of yourself and don’t think you are anything special just because you have items in print. Your name is on the front cover of catchy titles – so what!”

God has given each and every one of us gifts to use and share with others and success is only reached when we acknowledge that we cannot do anything by ourselves. People need people – that is how God made the system.

Teamwork

And so, I end by declaring that I am very grateful for all the people who made my books possible – from the people who made me cry, to the hilarious characters I have bumped into on the London Underground. They are the reason I put pen to paper in the first place, and of course, Jesus Christ, who has done, and still continues to be, the most amazing person that has ever been worth writing about.

I have this notion that everyone has at least one book inside of them. I encourage you to release yours. Despite the frustrations and complexities of being an author – it’s worth it. It has brought me so much joy.

sharon

Toddler Years: Misquoted Mottos

I’m wonderfully content with who I am, however, being black means I have two negative things to contend with that affect my vanity:

Firstly, I have a lot of melanin in my skin which means in the sun, I tan very easily. Suncream doesn’t work – it stops you from burning, but it doesn’t prevent you from tanning.

I love the sunshine, so I don’t avoid it, but if I stay under the rays for too long, I end up looking like a cross between a walking stick of charcoal and Twigwidge.

Twigwidge was a little brown ‘thing’ we sang about in primary school. He was the spirit of the chestnut tree. Kids aren’t aware they are singing about demons being evoked from the forest, and therefore, we happily chanted:

“Tap, tap, Twigwidge, rappa-tap Twigwidge. Twigwidge spirit of the chestnut tree…”

When you look him up on Google, (because you know you’re going to) you will see that he wasn’t that dark, but his hair looked very much like how mine became when too much heat was applied to it directly from above.

This leads me nicely to my second point – my tresses. Negroes may look like their hair is strong and thick because of how bouffant it is, but in reality, it is the weakest hair of all the races, and therefore, it breaks easily. Because it is so brittle, it is also very dry and therefore, if you walk into a black hair shop, you will be astounded at the myriad of products on the shelves, all containing some kind of oil, designed to keep our hair moist and on our heads instead of the floor.

When getting dressed, in order for me to be able to get something over my head without some kind of hair gel transferring onto my clothes, I would stick a carrier bag over it first and then later on, I upgraded to a clear, plastic food bag.

One day when I was getting dressed, I placed the food bag over my head and as soon as I did so, I screamed out so loudly that my housemate thought I was being attacked by a burglar. She ran into my bedroom to see me stood there all forlorn, with crispy bits of blue and pink dried petals, fragments of an orange slice, sharp shards of cinnamon and traces of pinecone all over my hair.

Alas, I had forgotten that I had previously used the bag to transport some pot pourri to a bowl and now I looked like some kind of unique ornament one would see sitting in the window of a vintage florist.

With all the moisturising cream in my mane already, it took a good three days to get the fragrant flower petals and spices out of my fuzzy locks and this is why I ended up using shower caps to protect my clothes instead.

After this unfortunate incident, (we had been getting ready for church at the time) the shower caps became important to me, and I didn’t like to run out of supply.

There is a jolly good reason why I have told you this story, and when I come back to it later, you’ll understand the significance of my latter trauma.

Murder. Normal people are not supposed to want to kill. Christians, even more so, because, “Thou shalt not snuff out the life of another human being.” is one of the Ten Commandments. But more obviously, it is not a nice thing to do.

This aside, I confess I came close to being guilty of this sin each time I sat in the Mums and Tots group listening to some smug mother giving me platitudes about how potty training isn’t that hard.

The quote that I struggled with the most was,

“They are clean before they are dry.”

This basically meant that children learnt to poo in the loo before they managed to control their bladder. Therefore, if you had a child who was leaving little brown deposits all over the house, there was something wrong with them, or there was something drastically wrong with your parenting skills.

Yes, you’ve guessed it. I was the one who was having to navigate around poo balls and facing the distress of finding one appear in a sock drawer, a slipper, or roll out from under the bed.

Believe me, I tried everything. Most writers at this point, would tell you they were tearing their hair out in frustration, but you know by now that because of my afro heritage, that was happening of its own accord, so I kept my hands below chest height.

My daughter was fast approaching the age of 3 and being an August baby, she was due to start nursery school (pre-school) the following month.

“I don’t want her having accidents when she starts pre-school!” I would wail to my husband, who had also run out of ideas of how to coax her towards the toilet.

If this, “They are clean before they are dry.” motto was true, then I had a long way to go before she was to stop wetting herself and the prospect of that was not good.

I am pleased to say that a week before Sarah began pre-school, she did indeed stop leaving deposits around the house and recognised that the toilet is where one placed such things.

However, before that day of triumph occurred, I was to face my hardest challenge yet.

One morning after breakfast, I entered my bedroom to get dressed. Without my spectacles on, I spotted what l thought was a broken-up chocolate muffin on the floor. On further inspection not only was I aghast to discover it was lumps of faeces, but they were sitting on top my shower cap! This was the last one from my spare stash.

Like a puppy, she had wandered into our room and out of courtesy so as not to soil the carpet, the sweet darling had grabbed the cap from the end of my bed and used it as her training mat.

I was furious! In my head, I could hear the gentle voice of the last mother who had imparted the ‘special advice’ to me, and

Prison clothes wouldn’t suit me anyway and there was no way I was going to contend with an unflattering gown as well as baldness (the shock of it had forced my hands to land on my head), so I decided there and then, two things:

  1. People meant well. Parental advice may not always be appropriate, but the heart behind it is often kind. Not every mother is smug and proud. They have been through trials themselves and are usually trying to encourage, even if the motto used is not 100% accurate.
  • God hears our prayers. Sarah stopped soiling literally one week before starting pre-school and never had any further accidents. Not the solid kind anyway. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you how long the wetting lasted and to protect her dignity, I shall not elaborate too much on that. But then again, you would miss out on the next chapter if I said nothing at all. Besides…Sarah doesn’t mind me sharing these stories. So here goes… (The Ragamuffin of Middle Earth)

Pre-school Years: The Ragamuffin of Middle-Earth

“Am I the only one?” is the question many a mother asks herself when she sees nobody else around her going through the same parenting problem.

On Sarah’s first day at nursery school – one month after her 3rd birthday, I handed the teacher a bag of spare clothes. I’m sure many other mums did the same thing, but here is the question: Why did I never see any other children emerging from their classes at the end of the day, looking like street urchins?

Most of the time, when Sarah wet herself, the teacher remembered that there was a bag with her name on that contained clothes for her to change into. On occasions though, she either had more than one accident in the day, or the teacher forgot she had her own set of garments to change into.

It was hard enough to see my little cutie coming out in a different outfit than what I had dressed her in that morning. She would have her lunch box in her hand, a painting or piece of artwork she had created in the other, and then, trailing behind her would be a little plastic bag with the sodden clothes, banging into her legs as she walked.

I questioned my pride on several occasions. Was I embarrassed? Well, there was no need to be, was there? What parent is so observant that they made a mental note of each piece of clothing my daughter had been wearing? Would they really say to themselves, “Ah, that little girl had on blue jeans this morning and now she is in pink cords.”

Of course not. So I settled my spirit and reminded myself to continue praying that the Lord would heal our daughter from this Diurnal Enuresis.

Everything went pear-shaped one afternoon when Sarah came out of class looking like a character from Oliver Twist. Being a girl, there was no flat cap, but I could imagine her singing,

“I’d do anything – anything to wear my own clothes.”

“You’ve got to pick a skirt or two.”

“Where, air air air air, are my own clothes?”

“Who will buy, my lovely long trousers? Who has bought them because I’m not wearing them now?”

I cringed. Never have I cringed as much as I did in that moment. The word, ‘cringe’ reminds me of a piece of paper being screwed up so tight that it almost becomes invisible. That is what I wanted to be right then when I looked at her limbs.

It was the middle of winter, yet she had been made to wear pale pink trousers that were as thin as summer pjs and had obviously  shrunk in the wash. Instead of them reaching her ankles, they stopped just below her knees. The thinnest part of her legs are her calves, and besides looking like part of Oliver’s crew, she also had the appearance of a malnourished Hobbit. The ends of the trousers were so wide, they were the circumference of a tea plate and as she walked towards me, they flapped around her knees. To make matters worse, the urine must have soaked her socks because she was now wearing ugly brown ones, with a bright yellow pattern.

“What are you wear…” I began, then realised the last thing I should do is draw more attention to the attire of the one from the Shire.

But as I looked around the waiting area, several mothers were staring in our direction. Nobody was smiling – they all looked horrified.

I suddenly raised my voice to the highest volume I could muster without sounding mentally ill.

“Oh Sarah, you weren’t wearing those clothes this morning! Somebody has changed you into this silly costume!  I have never seen those trousers before. Ha ha, as if I would dress you like that! Somebody has put you in these dress-up clothes. I wonder why they did that? Did they forget to help you get back into your OWN trousers. Ha ha, how funny!”

My hysteria didn’t work. I wanted at least one mum to say something reassuring so I would not feel so stupid, but they just grabbed their children and ushered them away as fast as possible.

I turned back around and peered angrily at the teachers. But what could I say? Almost 3 times a week, every week, my child emptied her bladder onto the floor and they were the ones who had to clean it up. She dispelled urine onto chairs and also the carpet in the Home Corner where she liked to play the most.

I made up my mind that the only thing I could do was to fetch a larger bag and write her name on in bigger letters and add a large tag to it as well.  Then I filled it with at least three changes of clothing, and made sure there was an adequate supply of long trousers.

In reality, there are many parents in the world who are facing much more difficult and complex problems with their children and have received much worse care and support  than I ever did. Worse still, they don’t have a personal relationship with Jesus and therefore, have nobody divine to pour their hearts out to. In the worse times of turmoil, I received, love, comfort, reassurance and peace from the One who knows how to help us in times of need.

He cared about every single little thing that bugged me, no matter how insignificant it may have seemed to others, or trivial.

I don’t know how I would have survived those years without God by my side and my heart goes out particularly to single parents who also don’t have a partner to sound off to at the end of the day.

Folks, parenting is hard because life is hard. We were never promised an easy time, but we were promised that he would walk with us throughout the ups and downs. God cares about your children, because he loves them. He loves you too, and never intended for you to raise your offspring without his guidance and help.

Thankfully, my Sarah never emerged looking like a street urchin again. But I did have to pass on a spare bag of clothes to teachers for more years than I ever imagined. I’m not the only one. One day, when concerned that my daughter may enter high school with this ailment unhealed, the Headmistress told me in confidence that, “This problem is more common than you realise.”

And that is so true. All our problems in life are more common than we know and just because we haven’t yet stumbled across another person going through the same thing, doesn’t mean we are on your own.

God came through for us like he always did and saved our precious daughter of the humiliation of being a high school kid with a ‘spare bag’. God wants to help you too. In the meantime, be encouraged, because whatever you are going through right now, you are definitely not the only one.

Pre-school Years: Dance Classes

dance classes

The special moment had finally arrived. Excited parents sat in tiered seats, fiddling with their cameras while occasionally glancing up at the stage curtains. All those early Saturday mornings of trundling their kids off to dance classes were now going to be justified, as the performance of the year was about to begin. Their wonderful dance instructor, Helen, had patiently taught ballet, street dance, acrobatics and tap dance to children of all ages.

As the show began, everything went swimmingly, and it was soon time for the pre-schoolers to perform. They stood nervously backstage, eagerly anticipating their cue to step forward through the curtain and into the limelight, where a room full of beaming mums and dads were sat waiting quietly. Each strand of hair had been beautifully braided and with their tiny waists supporting a floaty, satin skirt, it looked like the audience were going to be entertained by nimble fairies. Helen smiled proudly when it was their turn to enter the stage and reveal all the hard work they had put in over the past few months.

They entered marching in time to upbeat music and they began to skip around merrily. Every child was holding a baton with a pom-pom attached at the end – not the fluffy, woollen type – but the glitzy tinsel type that cheerleaders use.

And then it happened.

Momentarily, many held their breath, but the hearts of everybody sank; the hearts of the parents watching, the hearts of the helpers backstage and the rapidly beating heart of one little girl. She had dropped her baton.

As the music continued playing, for those watching, it was as if the volume had been turned down to a whisper. But for this infant, it must have seemed deafening, as her brain tried to decipher what to do next. She did what most children would do. She did what many adults do when tragedy strikes: She stood in the middle of the stage, head down, staring at the pom-pom that had landed by her toes.

I was on the front row with my daughter and sitting very near the unfortunate baton. Everything in me wanted to throw my coat to the floor, fling off my boots and fly onto the stage so I could quickly hand it back. We were crestfallen and hoped that maybe another child would quickly reach down and retrieve it for her. But alas, there it remained, lying limp on the floor, although on many occasions it had dazzled beautifully in her hands during numerous rehearsals.

Two small feet stood rooted to the spot, while others rose into the air landing in a hop. Two arms that wanted to fly upwards in a gallant wave, flopped redundantly as the arms of other infants flew high, sending shiny strips of tinsel towards the spotlights above. Two eyes glistened with moisture as tears were fought back; embarrassment, fear and confusion all mixed into one, as it now seemed too late to catch up with the rest.

She remained motionless as the music played and jovial children danced around her. A moment before, she had been happy to be part of a show that demonstrated her dance skills and at the tender age of four, she had been doing remarkably well to remember all the moves. With her chin now resting on her chest, the end of the second baton made its way into her mouth as she chewed on it nervously.

Having been given strict instructions not to pick up her baton if it falls, the little girl stood anxiously observing all the others on stage, who in her peripheral vision, were now holding tightly onto their own batons so as to not incur the same fate.

We all know how immobilizing it is when something we were grasping onto is no longer there.  It matters little whether it was us who dropped it, or if it was cruelly snatched from our hands; whichever way, if often leaves us too shocked to function.

One day we are holding onto our health, the next, we are told we have a terminal illness.

We are planning great retirement holidays with our spouse, then they announce that they have found somebody else.

We talk proudly at how well our child is doing at school, just at the same moment their friend’s car is crashing into a wall with them in the passenger’s seat.

We make a dreadful mistake and are too full of shame to go back home or walk back into our church.

When the performance finished, the audience clapped vigorously, and the youngster may have assumed this was not for her. Yet, if she had asked anyone in the room, they would have told her that she deserved their cheers as much as the ones who completed the sequence, and indeed, she was included in their ovation.

God does the same. He is cheering you on and applauding you for every little effort you make. It doesn’t matter that others are sprinting past you while you are barely crawling. He is proud of your attempts to move in the right direction, no matter how small. He sees the work you put in behind the scenes, so when life knocks your baton from your hand, he already knows about your endeavours. He knows that your trouble is just one of those unfortunate things. But even when it’s the result of your foolishness or sin, he is still eager to help you back into ‘the dance’.

Although the youngster was doing as she was told – not to pick up her baton if it drops – she didn’t understand she was to continue dancing. In the same way, God wants to help us carry on despite the fact that:

The abuser may never apologise.

The business may never survive.

The distant parent may never embrace.

The money may never be enough.

The wayward spouse may never return.

The medication may never work.

The reputation may never be retrieved.

The dream may never be fulfilled.

The children may not follow wise advice.

The bullies may never show remorse.

The deceased will never breathe again.

Your Heavenly Father has never taken his eyes off you. You may feel like you’re going nowhere, but he is right here waiting to strengthen you each step of the way and show you what you can do when you allow him to direct your steps.

It’s hard to keep up with the pace of everyone else and not everybody can, and that’s okay.

He is waiting to jump up onto your stage, pick up your baton, dust it off and put it back into your hands; this time, with his fingerprints all over it. Then he will gladly move with you, helping you to learn to trust him and clapping loudly as you take the next step in the dance classes of life.

God is our refuge and strength – always ready to help in times of trouble. (Psalm 46:1 NLT)

dance classes

Primary Years: Quality Time

Have you ever had one of those days when you just cannot seem to focus on your conversation with God?

I was in my bedroom trying to connect with my heavenly father. Having difficulty concentrating on the bible passage in front of me, I glanced at the large mirror opposite and thought,

“There’s a hole in the armpit of my jumper. I must sew it before it gets bigger. Umm…the central heating boiler needs fixing. All that grating and sloshing! It sounds like a roaring dragon emerging from the ocean and how did…Oh sorry Lord! What was I saying?”

When I get like that, the only thing to keep my mind on track is to throw a cloth over my head. I reached towards the nearest drawer and pulled out a stripy pair of pyjama trousers. It fitted on my head nicely, but with the legs hanging down to my tummy and the elasticated waist draped in an arch shape over my eyebrows, I looked like an Egyptian pharaoh. Also, I could still see too much in my peripheral vision, so I tossed it onto the floor and yanked out the rest of the clothes from that drawer. Amongst the mess, I found a bright pink negligee that I never liked. I had bought plenty in my single days, imagining that when I got married, I would float into the room like an irresistible seductress and woo my husband into throwing down his book to give me his full attention. In reality, the shoulder straps snapped, the lace ripped, the satin wrinkled into many ugly creases and that was all before I’d even left the bathroom. To top it off, the blooming thing made me sweat like a boar in the outback.

“That will do.” I mused and draped it over my head.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door.

My youngest niece, Bethany, entered slowly and looked around.

“Ooh! It’s nice in here! This is a lovely room.”

I thanked her for the compliment and pondered on the fact that she did not comment on my weird apparel.

With the frayed straps dangling around both ears, I peered out through the neon nightwear and asked her what she wanted. It was evident that she had become bored playing with her elder sister and cousin, so I gave her a few suggestions of what she could do next, promising that I would join her shortly.

With her wide eyes focussed on me, she scratched her knee and puffed out her cheeks, totally unpacified by my efforts to encourage her in a new activity. Putting on her most persuasive voice – the one she usually reserves for using to request ownership of a chocolate biscuit that she’s spotted in the cookie jar – she took a deep breath and uttered:

“Auntie Sharon, please can you come down?”

The poor mite must have been desperate for company! Why would any child want to spend time with a crazy relative who is staring at them through black lace while blowing a washing label out of their eyes?

However, I was also deeply touched. For once, Bethany was not after some kind of sweet treat. She just wanted me to spend some time with her. Moved by this request, I shifted the satin hat and promised to join her after I had finished reading the chapter I was on.

But alas, she was still stood in the same spot, with no sign of imminent departure. Looking disappointed, but trying to hide her impatience, she whispered:

“Is it a BIG chapter?”

It was so delightful to be reminded by this little token of impatience, how eager our God is to spend quality time with us.

How he loves us to come to him with no agenda or shopping list of wants! Of course, we know he delights in seeing us draw near to him boldly, so we can obtain mercy and grace to help in the time of need,

For a moment, I imagined Jesus walking up behind me and prodding me on the shoulder with his finger. I give him no attention and shrug him off saying, “Not now Lord, I’m looking for a bible verse.” He offers to help me, but I reply, “S’okay, I’ll check Google.”  He tells me that I spend more time with my phone than with him and hey, if I put that thing down, he might even tell me where that verse is found.

Why had I been so distracted earlier? It was because I had a mind full of other things that I was wanting to do that day. When last had I entered ‘his room’ and asked him to spend time with me without needing anything or having a list of other tasks I wanted to do?

Is he ever busy doing something else when I want to chat with him? What would it be like if we had to make an appointment to see him or travel miles just to get an hour of his time?

I was glad that Bethany had interrupted me, because I knew that when I did as she had requested, her facial expression would remind me how we should be when we begin to draw near to God. He is always pleased to see us enter his presence, so we should delight in being with him!

I closed my ‘book of big chapters’ and headed downstairs, leaving my ‘bottom drawer boudoir’ in a mess.

On entering the living room, Bethany gave me a cheery smile. Though, I’m not sure if it was because she was so glad to see me, or if it had more to do with the Kit Kat that had suddenly appeared in her hand, but either way, I had learnt a valuable lesson about how much our Daddy loves to spend time with us, just because we are his children.

Primary Years: Miss Blinko

Dear Lord, before I was the size of a dot, you were thinking about the wonderful things you were going to do in my life and all the gifts that were to be bestowed upon me.

When I opened my mouth for the very first time, you were there to breathe air into my tiny lungs.

So, on my very first day at school, when my teacher threw my bag of “Salt and Vinegar Chipsticks” in the bin and decided she would hate me forever, you were there, protecting my little spirit from the evil that was spewing out of her heart.

I did not know what hatred was at that age and it is only as I grew older and heard the stories of how on “Parents Evening”, my humiliated mum and dad had to stand in a classroom and listen to a crazy woman’s insults, that I realised that this world is sometimes not a very nice place.

Mother: Er…can you please tell us why there are pictures on the wall drawn by all the other children except ours? Why have you not put any of her drawings on display?

Teacher: Because your child is educationally sub-normal.

Mother: Pardon? Excuse me?

Teacher: Your child is backward, retarded.

Father: What?

Teacher: She draws people with no necks. Humans have necks but she puts their heads right on top their bodies. I’m not putting pictures up like that.

Mother: But she’s five years old!

Father: Yes, and that boy has drawn a man with 6 fingers and there’s one over there who has a mouth that reaches up to its eyes. Because they are infants!

Teacher: Well, she’s not normal. And I don’t like the fact that she is holding back little Karen. I don’t want them playing together.

Karen’s Mum:  Er, Miss Blinko, I am Karen’s mother and I have no problem with my daughter playing with this couple’s child. How can you say she is holding my daughter back? She is four and their child is five – how much hindering can she do?

I am told that, later on, the mother of this pretty blonde girl pulled my parents aside and explained how embarrassed she was that this ridiculous incident had taken place. 

My mother had then promptly booked an appointment to see the headmistress the next day and after painfully relating the story, the head teacher could not believe what she was hearing. She summonsed the teacher to her office.

Headmistress: “Is this true? Did you really say these things to Sharon’s parents? Do you really think those things about her? Did you really say all that in public?”

Teacher: “Yes.”

Headmistress: “What?! Why on earth…?”

Teacher: “Well, I have never taught a black child before. She’s different and I don’t know how to relate to black kids.”

The story I was told was that the head teacher held her breath and for a moment both her and my mother thought they would faint in shock. The face of the head mistress turned a bright purple as a tirade of words were hurled at the arrogant woman.

 “Just get my child out of that class at once.” My mother had said.

Naturally, if something like that had happened in this day, the I guess teacher would have been sacked on the spot. And there would have been a national outcry because most parents would have had the sense to take it to the newspapers. Well, I certainly would have done, if I had been the parent, but I think THAT my dear mum and dad just wanted to forget about the whole thing. It was too painful for them.

Thankfully, I do not remember much about this teacher, only that she allowed a horrible girl called Sandra to constantly spit in my face.

So, as I sit here many years later, I think of all the disappointments, insults, bullying, name-calling, missed opportunities, snobbery (some from Christians), pains, sicknesses, accidents, fears, anxieties, and I thank you God for all my experiences, good or bad.

You have been with me the entire time and you have not played a quiet role in the background but been very active in ensuring I am at peace, guided, given wisdom, comforted, loved, cherished and made into the happy soul that I am today.

I don’t deserve your love and many times I have acted so bad that it would have been right for you to have called me retarded. Why do we make the same mistakes repeatedly?

There is absolutely nothing I would change if I had the chance to live my life over again. Yes, I would change the sins I committed, but I would not change any hurts done to me. No insults, no blame, no hypocrisy, no betrayal, no rejection.

Through all my hard times I have discovered that Jesus, you really are who you say you are.

Thank you so much for being there for me when my mum and dad could not, and for,

You see all adults as mother and father figures to children and so your promise in Psalm 27 also relates to Miss Blinko. She did not ‘mother’ me the way a primary school teacher is supposed to, but you cared for me instead, so much so, that I can happily declare that I never bore any trauma from the season I was in her class.

Looking back, I can clearly see that you truly have been and still are, my best friend.

Even if my father and mother abandon me, the Lord will hold me close. (Psalm 27:10)

Primary Years: Fleeting Moments

I don’t multi-task very well. If I’m working, I enjoy being part of a team, but I don’t like too much banter while I’m focussing on the job in hand.

At home, I’ve tried doing more than one thing at once, but it often results in burnt vegetables, a light left on upstairs or a tap left running downstairs. I love playing games, but not while I’m chopping up onions and the like.

One day when I was busy in the kitchen, multi-tasking badly, my daughter entered and asked me to choose a colour.

I assumed she must have found her dad’s paint brochure, as each shade had a posh emulsion name.

“Mummy, choose between, Magenta, Sunshine, Coral or Mint Mist.”

“Er…Coral.”

“Now pick a number out of 6, 10, 14 or 20.”

With each hand using a pincer grip, she was holding a piece of paper that had been folded into a square shape. There was a gap at the four corners where forefingers and thumbs slotted into. Once inside the gap, it looked like the digits were wearing a conical shaped hat that was able to stretch in different directions. This construction is commonly known as a ‘Paper Chatterbox’ or an ‘Origami Fortune Teller’.

I picked Number 6.  She lifted up a flap on her chatterbox where the 6 was and read out an instruction to hop on one leg. As I obeyed, the pot I was holding slushed pasta and sweetcorn all around the sides and the contents became rather mushy.

The game continued with Sarah insisting that I perform various tasks and with me half-heartedly playing along while trying to distract her into leaving the kitchen.

After what seemed like the longest 3 minutes in history, I had been made to snort like a pig, squawk like an eagle and do a silly dance. Enough was enough. I didn’t want to play anymore. It was 4:15 pm and the wet washing still hadn’t made it to the line. The bin needed emptying and I had a sink full of dirty dishes.

Sarah was still in the school uniform I had asked her to take off an hour ago and I was in no mood for repetitive action games.

She continued flicking her paper creation back and forth.

“Okay, choose from, 1, 7, 22 or 300.”

“Ah!” I mused gleefully. “I’ll choose the largest number so that it will take her some time. Three hundred.”

She counted in hundreds and was done in seconds.

“Okay…laugh like a marmoset.”

 “What? Right okay, I can’t do this anymore Sarah, I’m busy. Let’s play this later. No, I’m not going to try just one cackle, go and play while I finish off in here.”

She hung her head and left the room. I hung my head too. A fatherly voice spoke deep into my spirit. What was most important at that time? Is getting the dinner finished more imperative than playing with my cherished daughter? Couldn’t I just put my spoon down for 5 minutes?

It hit me hard. I thought to myself that there will be a day all too soon when Sarah will not want to see me do impressions of an animal, not even in private. That day, we all know, creeps up on us and comes far quicker than we imagine.

I thought about the first day she was born and how that seemed like only yesterday. I pondered on the fact that she was now more than half my height. Then I looked into the living room and imagined a place so quiet, where no innocent child resides. No doll clothes strewn about the floor and no rainbow loom-band bracelets stuck in between the settee cushions.

I remembered that first kiss. A cheek so soft and eyelashes so long. Cherry red lips and a tiny chest moving up and down. That moment was so precious. How many more embraces will I have?

I threw my spoon into the washing-up water and as the soap suds splashed around the draining board, I rushed into her personal space. Then, I opened my mouth so wide that my top lip curled under, revealing my gums. Closing my eyes tightly I let out the loudest, craziest, “Ee, ee, ee, ee, ee!” that anyone has ever heard.

Primary Years: The Psychology of Loneliness

Sometimes, children cannot explain what they are going through and how they are feeling. My bambino suffered from social anxiety from an early age and at first, I did the old ‘parental guilt thing’ that the Devil likes to shove onto us when we forget to take our problems straight to God. I thought that it was somehow my fault and I questioned if it was owing to something I did when she was a baby.

When the sadness became too overwhelming, I finally did what I should have done in the first place. I gave the problem to the Lord and asked him to sort it out.

The first thing I needed was understanding. He did this beautifully by helping me see things from her point of view:

No friends

Here I am again. Alone in the playground. Everyone’s got a friend or two, but nobody wants to play with me. It’s lonely and embarrassing and I don’t want to be here.

I pluck up a bit of courage and approach a group huddled together.  “Can I play with you?” They say yes, but I don’t feel warm inside because they ignore me. They run, I follow, they run, I follow, they run, I follow again. I get fed up with this. They are not talking to me.

I walk away. No-one calls me back. There’s nothing to do – nobody to talk to.

What shall I do with myself?

A few straggly skipping ropes are left on the ground. I pick one up and start jumping. I flick it back and it gets caught in the hood of my coat. I giggle but there’s no-one to giggle with me.

My only companion

A hula hoop would be better, but I didn’t finish my lunch quick enough to get one. Mummy told me off when I said I left my food so I could get out of the dining hall fast, to get a hoop. She said, “You’re only 6 and very little. You need to make sure you eat well so that your body can grow big and strong.” She doesn’t understand that it’s my only friend and I’d rather be hungry than have nothing to do.

Playground jester

Someone walks past and I act daft by twisting my mouth and making a funny noise. Maybe somebody will notice and think I am funny and want to be with me. I don’t realise that this makes things worse. They are the same age as me, so they can’t grasp that I’m only doing these things for attention. A girl notices my twisted face and turns her back on me. She definitely doesn’t want to play with me now.

Try again

I see a girl in the distance who I think likes me. To my delight, she agrees that I can join in the fun, but then two minutes later, she says I must go because the game they are playing now has too many people.

I’m cross

People are huddled together talking. They are interested in what each other has to say. Nobody is interested in me. What I’ve got to say is obviously not important. No-one needs me, no-one wants me. Might as well stay at home. I don’t like school.

Back in class

When I get back into class, I don’t feel happy. I haven’t had a good play time and I’m dreading the next one. My pocket is full of sticks I collected when I had nothing else to do. Maybe I’ll collect some leaves next time, but I’d rather do it with someone else. It would be great to compare leaves; see who’s picked the biggest.

The teacher asks a question. I know the answer but I daren’t put my hand up because nobody likes my voice. What if my answer is wrong and everybody laughs at me? I don’t want people looking at me. Staring. Staring at the girl with no friends. They already think I’m silly, so if I get this question wrong, they’ll think I’m even more silly.

I look away from the teacher and bite my finger, but I really, really want to suck my thumb. I haven’t had a good play and now I have to do work. I just want someone to talk to me, so I sit and chat to the girl next to me instead of finishing my sums. I don’t understand them anyway.

The teacher gets annoyed when she sees I’m not working, but how do I explain that I’m not being naughty? The girl has been listening to me and it makes me feel good about myself.

Lingering behind

The next play time is the same. I take ages to put on my coat to stall time. I pretend something’s stuck in the sleeve, then I fiddle with my Velcro fastening, making out that it won’t stick. I go to the toilet then play with the soap until the water goes cloudy. I hear boyish shouts and girly screams. I hear laughter.

There’s an empty bench outside. I sit down and pretend I’m not bothered. Nobody calls my name, so I keep my head down, counting my sticks. I wish it would snow, then at least I could have fun making footprints.

The whistle goes again, but I’ve had no play.

Bedtime

Later on, at bedtime, Mummy is cross with me and telling me off for biting holes in the cuff of my jumper. I want to tell her how I feel but she is not happy with me. Will she want to listen, and will she care? After all, I’ve wasted their money by ruining my uniform. She asks me to pray but I don’t mention about how I’m feeling. Better to say things she’s going to be happy with like, “Sorry God for biting my sleeve.” She’s staring at me funny, like she is trying to see into my mind. She looks sad. She prays and reaches forward and kisses me. This is my chance. I tell her I have no friends at school and she listens. She asks me lots of questions and has that sad face again. I’m surprised because she tells me that a similar thing happened to her when she was little and that it happens to boys too. She acknowledges that it is a horrible feeling. I’m pleased that she’s listening and taking me seriously. She runs her finger across the top of my brow and lightly strokes my hair.

She then holds my hand and prays with me again. I feel good that she’s telling God about this. I know God loves me and makes things better, so I’m happy. I feel safe and it gives me peace knowing I’ve shared my problem with my mummy and God.

Mummy tells me I can talk to her about this as often as I like and says God never gets bored of us telling him the same things. She does an impression of God being bored and I laugh.

My smile is back

I’m so pleased he likes me. Daddy comes up later and talks with me. He tells me he’s sorry about how I feel. That’s nice. I’m asked a lot of questions again, but I don’t mind. It makes me feel good to be listened to. He calls me ‘chicken’ and ‘sweetheart’ and strokes my head in a way that makes me feel sleepy. He prays with me and I lie down and put my thumb in my mouth.

I’m happy now. I’m happy that God has given me a mummy and a daddy who love me a big lot. I’m happy that even though I can’t see him, God is my very best friend.

Primary Years: I Spy Your Impatience

Nowadays, nobody in my family cares about putting up Christmas decorations and in the last few years of having a tree, I couldn’t care how shambled it looked. There was a time however, when I would sneak downstairs after I had been helped decorate it, to rearrange the order. I couldn’t have two gold baubles lying next to each other on the same branch. The best ones had to be at the front where everybody could see them and the old, dented efforts, on the branches near the wall. Tinsel had to be one colour only, so others would be tugged off and hidden away. The star had to be straight, but it always did lop to one side, which irritated me greatly.

These days, we put up a tiny, pre-lit tree with fibre optic strands that emit different colours and it takes less than 5 minutes to pull the branches out.

Christmas trees aren’t about Jesus anyway, so I plonk it between the television and back wall and don’t care less if it leans 45 degrees to the left.

During my season of decoration obsession, my little Sarah happily helped me dress a large artificial pine.  We took so long, it was exhausting, so I flopped onto the sofa for a rest afterwards.

“What shall we do now?” I asked my husband.

He suggested playing a quick game of ‘I Spy’ just for fun.

Very early on into the game, it was evident that we had not played this with Sarah before, or if we had, she certainly did not excel at it anymore. The poor thing, despite being excellent at spelling and far advanced in her years at English language, simply could not grasp the clues.

When it was my turn, I scanned the room for an easy object and looked at the tree.

Its branches were all drooping from the weight of its décor, and I thought this will be an easy one. There must have been at least 50 baubles shining in the twilight of the room.

“I spy, with my little eye…something beginning with…B.”

Sarah looked around with a forefinger resting on her bottom lip. Many items of festive cheer were named, none of them beginning with the said letter.

Her dad decided to help her out a little.

“They are all over the tree.”

“Bells?”

We had no bells on the tree or anywhere else in the house.

“No…you helped Mummy put them up yesterday.”

“Bows?”

There were no bows in the house either.

I had already endured more than 15 minutes of this game and I could stand no more. This was not a ‘cosy night in having fun with my family’, it was torture.

I turned to Sarah and spoke in the high-pitched fast voice I use when I’m losing patience.

“Right. Here’s a very big clue. They begin with B, they are different colours, circular in shape and very, very shiny. We put them on the Christmas tree last night.”

“Oh!” she gasped. “Bits of tinsel!”

I gritted my teeth and reminded myself that I do not always grasp the simple things people try to tell me. I thought back to my nightmare first nappy change (see chapter 2).

Our daughter is funny, and we love her to bits. But she is also very intelligent. She has an amazing mind full of creativity and imagination. Yet in this game, her brain was on a totally different wavelength to mine.

This type of situation happens with families all the time. It also occurs in workplaces, churches and marriages.

Both parties are frustrated with each other. One loses their temper, the other loses the will to live.

I’m so glad that amongst Jesus’ many attributes, he is called the Peacemaker.

One of the weaknesses I struggle with the most, is reacting negatively in my heart towards people who do not respond to me the way in which I would respond to someone. God has taught me throughout the years that people have different social skills to me. My brain is wired differently to theirs and they are oblivious to my social expectations. I have also realised that the agitation is two-way. My methods and manner are just as likely to rile them.

People will misunderstand you. They will misquote you. They will blame you for things that are not your fault. You may be trying to get through to someone and it seems like your words are falling on deaf ears.

An action, joke, remark or type of behaviour is known in its fullest by the sender, but the receiver’s signals can run off a totally different line.

Also, like with Sarah’s game, sometimes even the most obvious quips have been lost in translation by the time it has reached my grey cells. Blog titles, business names and witty catchphrases are an example of this. I often just don’t ‘get the wit’ behind the phrase. I guess that’s why I find it easy to express empathy towards those struggling with autistic tendencies. Their wiring is even more complicated, sometimes causing society to shift away from them or them to hide away from others.

But for those of us who are not ‘afflicted’ with any type of syndrome, we must make every effort to remain outside our shells and embrace people for who they are, even if their behaviour annoys us greatly. I am learning that not everybody sees things my way. I am learning that I often see bits of tinsel instead of baubles and that people are getting irritated with me.

A common thread nowadays, is with the technological way we communicate. Many people understand that an email or text message cannot be responded to immediately by the recipient. For all we know, their dog vomited on the kitchen floor just after they read our very important message. Or, they may be taking time out to think carefully about how they are going to reply to us and haven’t the time to do so right at that moment. Then, being human, they totally forget, because our lives do not revolve around theirs.

So, the message-sender who becomes offended, angry, or judgemental, is in the wrong.

However, some people do not regard an electronic message the same as a verbal one. So, they see no need to reply with a, ‘thank you’ or a, ‘I got your message and will deal with this shortly’, or a ‘this isn’t relevant to me, but thanks anyway’, or even a, ‘I’m sorry that I won’t be able to respond to that until…’.

To the sender of these messages, this is the same as speaking to someone face to face and the hearer glaring at them, then walking away without any response. Or the hearer being asked a simple question but refusing to answer you because you are not important enough in their mind to warrant a polite, respectful reply. You are not even worth so much as a 2-second, ‘thanks’.

Oh Lord! Grant us an abundance of grace and forgiveness!

To conclude, I realise that we all have a tendency to judge by our own understanding, not God’s. We must constantly remind ourselves that we do not always comprehend the actions of others, because they are not us, and our focus must be on correcting our own imperfections. I am learning that it is okay to drop the issue and accept that no two people are the same.

I’m learning that it is okay to finish the game and play a different one. ‘I Spy’ is boring anyway.

Tweens: Power Tools

Devil: Did you see what she did? She began to move us back with her prayers. Those praises shook our very foundations. I’ve got to put a stop to this!

Imp: Kill her.

Devil: Can’t. She’s protected by the Lord. There are too many angels surrounding her anyway.

Imp: Strike her down with an illness then.

Devil: You kidding me? That’ll give her more time to pray! She’ll prop herself up in her bed, get out that wretched book and begin to declare healing scriptures. Then, that will ignite a flame inside her to start proclaiming other good things over her life.

Oh no! She’s finished her chores and she’s making her way upstairs to praise and pray in…that language!

Imp: Oh Master, that’s the worst of all! We don’t know what she is saying and once she starts, the Holy Spirit gives her strength to continue! Besides, this way, she will be praying what He wants, so there will be no blubbering, selfishness or distractions. Can’t you make her have an accident?

Devil: Well…it’s funny you should say that. What hits a parent harder than an attack on themselves? Striking their precious children of course. She’s not prayed for protection for her family yet. This morning God woke her up early to commune with him, but she was too tired to get up and so stayed in bed until it was time to rush around doing the school run. And when she got home, we managed to convince her again to get her priorities muddled up, so she began tidying up the kitchen instead of going to her prayer closet.

Imp: Yea, and wasn’t it good of me to show her all that dirt that she had not noticed before? It delayed her even longer. And I really laughed when she glanced at the oven door on her way out. What a hoot to see her turn back and grab a cloth!

Devil: Well done. That works every time. What I had in mind was to make her daughter have an accident so bad, that it demands hospital attention. And at the same time, we’ll hit on a few others so that the casualty department will be busier than usual. That will keep her away from God for a while. The whole day in fact – she doesn’t do evenings. ‘Gets distracted doing irrelevant things that have no effect on the kingdom, no eternal value; and by the time she picks up her bible, she’s falling asleep on the chair.

Imp: Ha ha! And doesn’t she just love YouTube! You should see the amount of silly stuff I added to her feed, which is now in her ever-growing ‘Watch Later’ pile. She’ll be distracted for hours! But surely, right now she will be talking to God, asking him to heal her daughter and give her comfort?

Devil: Oh, they will be just quick, panicky prayers, but very weak ones, as I shall fill her with guilt, and I shall also try to put doubts in her mind about God’s protection.

Imp: Couldn’t you just kill the girl? Go on, make her have a fatal head injury.

Devil: There’s nothing I’d like better but, I don’t have authority to take her life. There are angels protecting her and even if I make her fall, there’ll probably be one underneath her head to make sure she doesn’t get concussed. Blooming father! Always asking God for her safe keeping. Always stroking her brow and interceding for her well-being!

Imp: So, you gonna do it then Master? Come on, come on, before she starts to pray!

Devil: Chill. Look, she hasn’t even warmed up in praise yet. See…there are no vapours ascending to Heaven. She’s still thinking about herself.

Imp: Well, when you do it, can I help?

Devil: Yes. I will do the physical damage and you can work on the girl’s mind and emotions. Find some fickle, insensitive teacher who will stand over her and declare that she thinks her nose is broken. That will not only put fear into the girl’s heart, but also give her a long-lasting bad memory.

Imp: And because a teacher has authority over a child, if she says the broken nose thing enough times, it will come to pass?

Devil: Umm…I’m not sure we’ll get away with that one, for as soon as the stupid mother hears about the accident, she’ll start praying that her nose is not broken and that will counteract the teacher’s words. But we’ll give it a go anyway. The more damage, the better eh? Let’s get on with it.

Imp: Wow! That was some fall! You managed to hold her hands back so she couldn’t protect herself. She fell flat on her face. That will hurt. Yippee! They’ll be in the hospital the whole day! Great job Master!

Devil: Yes, I love it when a plan comes together. But what’s this? Husband and wife talking nicely to each other, sharing lunch in the waiting room and praying silently for their daughter? Unity! I simply HATE unity! The mother’s gone all humble and soft and is agreeing on everything. She’s even walked off to the canteen and left her husband in charge! Wives are not supposed to trust the dads to be in control during moments like these. She is showing trust! Letting her husband speak to the doctor by himself is giving him a self-esteem that will serve to strengthen their marriage!

Imp: But dads forget things. They are not as into the detail like mums are. She will want the doctor to know every single fact about the accident.

Devil: Oh, I wish you were right but, it seems like she he doesn’t care about all that. She is allowing him to be the head of the family and showing complete trust in his ability the take the lead. Uggh! This tragedy is bringing them together! They will get home later and pray together like one big, yukky Christian family. Ew! I Want to spit at someone!

Imp: So…your plan didn’t really work then, Master? The mother has realised the ‘first things first’ principle and is going to make more effort to seek the Lord at the beginning of the day. The child feels more secure because she didn’t expect her daddy to rush home from work and spend the rest of the afternoon with her. On top of that, she is excited about going for an Xray.

As for the mother, who is far too observant for my liking, she spent the entire time in the waiting room pointing out that hundreds of people are in worse situations than them and began praying for all the sick! She even asked God to heal that man who got soldering sparks in his eye. You were going to make him lose his sight then get depressed over it and eventually kill himself. Drat! Why do Christians interfere so?

Devil: Tell me about it! It’s like this whole incident is a holiday for them. I’m just waiting for her to fall into sin, so I can get her back for all that. Keep your eye on her, won’t you?

Imp: Master, look out!

Devil: Agh, sickening! Absolutely sickening! She’s singing victory songs again. And proclaiming that Jesus is Lord over all the earth!

Imp: And she’s quoting that verse that you really hate:

“Therefore, God elevated him to the place of highest honour and gave him the name above all other names, that at the name of Jesus, every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth and every tongue will declare that Jesus Christ is Lord…”

Devil: How I hate it when people know the truth! If only I could slash through her wrist and make it hurt so bad, she’ll think it is permanently damaged. Then at least she cannot write about me and tell the whole World Wide Web what a clutz I am. I don’t want people to know my strategies and discover I’m a loser. Some are so deluded, that they don’t believe that I even exist. Except…at Halloween.

Imp: Well, that’s not too far away now, is it Master?

Devil: Umm, good point. Let’s give up on those three for now and go find some fools who think that dressing-up their kids to look like us, is harmless fun. Come on you, we’ve got work to do.

Tweens: The Mystery of the Disappearing Boy

Contrary to what you might think, my title was not inspired by Enid Blyton. This is a true story about a boy who really did vanish before my eyes.

I was depressed. I felt abandoned. It seemed like God was not listening to me. I thought he did not care. Thus, I was having one of the biggest pity parties of my life.

Deep down, I knew I was verging into dangerous territory. Being a little sad is one thing, allowing oneself to become bitter because of impatience is another.

I headed to my favourite spot in London to take time-out to speak to the Lord. I needed his comfort but also, I wanted answers. Why had he taken so long to give me what I’d asked for? Was he having a long nap, oblivious to my needs? My faith was at an all-time low.

As I made my way towards the serene seating area outside a large train station, I fished in my bag for my sunglasses. I had already begun to cry and did not want to draw attention to myself. Behind dark shades, I could bawl my eyes out and no-one would notice.

Suddenly, a young lad appeared in front of me. He looked about 12 years old. As he stood facing me, it seemed like he had a learning disability of some sort. He was wearing spectacles that had very thick lenses – the type that make one’s eyes look really tiny. Despite this, he was desperately trying to give me eye contact, but they kept darting around. He had a mop of dark, messy hair and he was wringing his hands nervously. His shoelaces were undone and they kept flapping on the pavement as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

He did not hesitate to speak:

“Excuse me. I really need your help.”

Something about that simple, but humble sentence, hit the core of my being. He had my full attention. It startled me how direct he was being. Despite all the possible warning scenarios that could have played inside my head, somehow, I knew he considered me to be his only hope. I don’t mean that arrogantly, after all, there were many other people around. But it felt like my response would determine whether he would have the confidence to approach anyone else.

“Okay.” I said.

He pointed in the general direction of a double-decker bus that was passing by.

“I missed my stop and I need to get home. Driver told me to get off. I need to catch a train to get home. But I don’t have any more money. Can I have some money please?”

“How much do you need?” I asked.

“Two pounds forty-seven.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes please.”

“Are you sure that’s enough?”

“Yes please.”

I knew there was a possibility that this boy could have been working for a gang – a group who would be waiting to pounce on me as soon as I pulled out my purse. But I wasn’t worried. Something about this lad’s vulnerability made me not care about my own.

I searched through my change to see what I had and was disappointed that I could only give him a £1 more than he had asked for. I emptied my purse into his hands, and he thanked me promptly. As I placed my purse back into my handbag, a sadness washed over me. I would have given him much more if I’d had it, because all I could feel was compassion for this lonesome child who seemed quite frightened and in need of immediate assistance. I quickly looked up, so as not to lose sight of him, for I was going to offer to accompany him to the station. I not only wanted to make sure he bought the correct ticket, but to enquire whether he needed me to travel with him to his street.

I had visions of an anxious mother wondering what had happened to her precious son and I decided that even if I had never travelled to his destination before, I would endeavour to make sure he got home safely.

To my surprise however, his departure was so sudden that that I could not see where he had dashed off to so quickly. There were no bushes, trees or concrete posts blocking my view.  We were a good 10 metres away from the station entrance, as it is set back quite a distance from the road and I could see the front doors clearly. If he had darted to the right, I would have seen him dashing down the road. He could not have got into a car nor mounted a bicycle. There were no air balloons in the sky, and he hadn’t been holding a skateboard.

I frowned and looked around. There was a telephone box on the other side of the road, but I’m pretty sure it was not a TARDIS.

I trotted in the direction of the station, but I knew he could not have got there so fast even if his bashed-up trainers had been Heelys. Not to mention, his laces would have tripped him up.

And then it hit me. No, he was not an angel. Despite the fact that he seemed to have dematerialised, he was not an alien and we were not on the set of Star Trek.  He was not a figment of my imagination, nor was I on any medication. To this day, I do not know where this boy disappeared to so rapidly and how, but what I did know there and then, was that the Holy Spirit had used that situation to chastise me and comfort me all in one go.

As I made my way back to the benches, the Lord, whispered in my ear:

So, a pure stranger asks you for help and without a second thought for your own safety, you not only respond to him immediately, but you were willing to put yourself out to assist him further. You would have given him more money if you had it and you would have accompanied him home, risking getting lost yourself. Yet you struggle to trust me? You struggle to believe me when I say I care for you?  You did not know that boy, but I know you intimately because I created you.

 If you, being evil natured, know how to give good gifts to your children… His very first sentence struck you to the core, yet you have asked me for help many times. Don’t you think that I am moved with compassions for your needs also?

I found my spot, sat down, and cried like a river. But this time, not because I was feeling sorry for myself, but because my loving Father had taught me a valuable lesson using an innocent child who was there one second and gone the next.

Tweens: Swollen Rivers

The Sandman dresses in white clothing. Like Wee Wille Winkie, he wears a pale gown that trails to his ankles with long sleeves and 3 buttons just below a rounded collar. He has a matching white cap which flops to one side and there is a bell on the end, which makes a little tinkle sound as he moves about stealthily. He has white slip-on shoes that make him look like he’s just stepped into a pile of snow. His nose is long and sharp which would make him look very mean if it wasn’t for the big wide grin and twinkle in his beady eyes that are displayed whenever he’s on duty. He enjoys his job immensely and he’s a night worker of course.

As he enters a bedroom, his bony hands carefully twist the doorknob while he purses his lips in concentration. Mustn’t be seen or heard. He slips his hand into his little white pouch and with forefinger and thumb, he grabs a portion of sand. Then as quick as a flash, he pours the fine crystals across the eyes of the person who’s lying in bed with their eyes closed, but not yet asleep. That’s the most exciting bit for him – knowing that the deed is completed without so much as a stir from the victim.

He jumps off the bed, bends his back like and old man and rushes off into the night. A little giggle always escapes as he thinks about how clever he is to finish his deed without being caught. It’s not a wicked laugh; more like one of accomplishment. In the morning, the recipient rubs their eyes and wonders why they are so crusty. Sorry to be disgusting, but those bits stuck to your lashes are the granules of sand that the pale imposter planted on you the night before. He is not a malevolent creature really. The sand is to seal your eyes to help you get to sleep.

This was the story told to my husband when he was an infant and he believed every word of it. His grandmother knew how to use the correct intonation to make the whole event seem more real.

Anwar in turn, takes delight in sitting down with his family to retell the tales of this little man’s nocturnal adventures.

Between you and me, I think The Sandman is still in business, but has expanded his field of expertise. Recently, I have spotted quite a few floodsacks (sandbags) lined up outside the houses of local residents. Unfortunately, this new venture has not been as successful, because they have proved useless in sealing the doors and outbuildings of our neighbours. Subsequently, dirty water has seeped into their houses, destroying everything it has touched.

This has been a regular occurrence across the country. The news programmes have shown many British towns submerged in several feet of sludge, while heavy sacks are piled-up in vain against garden gates, fences, and entrances.

Yep, in England it rains. It cascades. It floods. People get wet. Their shoes become soaked within 2 minutes of a downpour. Worse still, lakes with high water levels overflow, ponds with poor drainage gush into the threshold of low-lying houses and rivers with inadequate defence barriers burst their banks and flow out like miniature waterfalls.

One Saturday, Anwar met Sarah and I in town, to take us home in the car. When he had dropped us off in the morning, the weather had been glorious, but a surge of rain soon appeared, and we faced an afternoon of plump puddles. Not wanting to pay for parking, he had left the car on a side street several minutes’ walk away. Although the land is fairly flat in the town, it seemed like nearby residents had already taken precautions because large, beige hessian sacks were stacked high in many doorways.

“Expecting a flood?” shouted a postman as he handed soggy mail to a lady who was stood at the entrance of her house in a warm fleece.

We ran along the pavement with our heads bowed, jumping over little pools that blocked our way. Like most children, Sarah didn’t mind the torrent because puddles are great fun to jump into. But the deceptive morning weather had inspired her to put on cloth shoes, not the wellington boots she needed right then. Suddenly she stopped, unable to keep up with the pace of her sprinting parents. Anwar said, “Jump on my back and I’ll carry you.”

Like a chimpanzee desperate for safety, she flew onto his back and clung on with all her might. As her dad trotted along, spine bent with the extra weight, she looked like an overgrown koala that had found the last standing eucalyptus tree.

I marvelled at how she tucked her head inside her fluffy hood then rested it on her father’s shoulders so that her face could not be seen. The burden of having to run had been lifted. The terrible weather remained constant, but she was suddenly warm, protected and being carried to her destination.

This father/child relationship was reminiscent to me of how our God desperately wants to carry us when the journey gets too much.

How he desires to lift us up during the storm and protect us from the cold wet splashes!

I love the idea of clinging onto my daddy, in total surrender, just like Sarah was doing on that drippy morning.

The bible says:

I will be your God throughout your lifetime, until your hair is white with age. I made you and I will care for you. I will carry you along and save you. (Isaiah 46:4 NLT)

For I hold you by your right hand. I, the Lord your God. And I say to you, don’t be afraid – I am here to help you. (Isaiah 41:13 NLT)

Of course, the Sandman doesn’t really exsist, so we cannot credit him for aiding our slumber. He is just the result of Danish folklore and I am glad I never knew about this Scandinavian darkness creeper when I was little, because I would have not slept any night, tired or not.

In reality, a pleasant night’s sleep is a gift from God, but it is also connected to other good things he bestows upon us, such as peace, health and provision.

We cannot expect him to bless our rest if we have failed to follow his wise advice about casting all our cares on him and giving him our anxieties. One of the reasons he tells us to not fear or worry is so we can have an undisturbed kip. The subject of sickness and hunger is a complex one and it’s not appropriate to start talking about those subjects here, but it is true that when we are not well, comfortable or fed properly, we will struggle with frequent insomnia also.

My prayer is that you will first learn to rely on God for everything, including peace of mind, so that you can have the blissful rest he promised.

There’s a debate as to whether the Sandman originated from Demnark or Germany. One thing is certain in my mind – both these nations love their lager – so I’m guessing in those days it was so strong, it produced some kind of freaky hallucination.

That aside, the next time you are feeling overwhelmed with life’s burdens, look up, Isaiah 43:2. Part of it reminds us that when we pass through the waters, God will be with us and when we pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over us. Isn’t that great! It helps me to sleep and wake up feeling refreshed, ready to face the challenges of the day ahead. I hope you will know this joy too.

Are You Still Whole in the Bowl?

Years ago, when subsidy publishers were popular, would-be authors would flock to them in the hope that they would give them a publishing contract.

The publisher would always respond with,

“We’ve read your manuscript and think it is just the right thing and we would love to work with you. We are happy that you want to publish your book with us.”

Then, they would bleed them dry by demanding they hand over every penny they had.

Why, you ask, did so many authors choose this route? Well, ordinary publishers wanted nothing to do with layman writers. They became inundated with so many A4 sized parcels that most of them went straight into the bin. The few manuscripts that were read, were mostly anthologies of boring poetry, or badly written children’s stories. They had had enough, and very soon, all mainstream publishers decided that unsolicited manuscripts should be submitted by nobody, not even if your friends thought you were the next Shakespeare, Agatha Christie or Danielle Steel.

Even when they did find a great tale submitted by a trusted literary agent, it was far too risky to take that author on board. Put simply, if a million people did not know you as a renowned author, a million people were not going to buy your book.

“But I’m a member of a large slimming club / church congregation / golf club / dance mom posse!” they would wail.

Alas, writers did not understand that the most cost effective process for mainstream publishers, was to print off at least 200 copies at a time. Added to the cost of paper, ink, electricity and wages, was the bill for proofreaders, copy editors and marketers. Lastly, they had to make lucrative deals with bookshops and these places often had the upper hand. Some stores would accept 2 copies, but many said, “No thank you, this author’s unknown to this area.” Which left the remaining bundle taking up space somewhere in the publishing house. Now, multiply that bundle by 450 submissions a month.

All in all, it simply wasn’t financially feasible for publishers to take such a big risk with a newbie author, especially those writing in a category that was already overcrowded (children’s books), or the least popular (poetry).

Therefore, the motto became,

“Written a book? Then publish it at your own expense.”

I decided to do that myself. After submitting the paper manuscript (no internet back then, she says, pulling the blanket over her knees and searching for her knitting needles) it was only a matter of days before I received the official letter in the post.

The acceptance letter was full of the usual diatribe about how they thought I definitely should work with them and where had I been hiding all this time? I was hooked.

I signed the contract, paid the extortionate fee and waited.

Three weeks later, I received a phone call from the manager.

“I’m very sorry, but there was a fire in the Editor’s office and your manuscript was the one he had been working on at the time. It’s been completely destroyed. You’ve got another copy of it haven’t you?”

Silence.

Oh come on! Who would be so foolish to not have a duplicate copy of their manuscript? Even if it’s not stolen and plagiarised by a malignant post office employee, it could still get lost in transit!

Well…of course I’m not stupid – not ever so much. I did have a duplicate, but at the last minute, I had changed so many poems (Oh, didn’t I confess that I was one of those weird dudes who write poetry when depressed, then hide their ramblings under the bed?) I had been too lazy to copy it all out again.

So alas, there you have it. The most up to date copy of my work was stupidly submitted without there being any proof to show what I had penned.

What do you think my reply was? I did the thing that most silly Christians do. I lied.

“Oh yeah,” I fibbed. “of course I have a copy. But I was thinking the other day, that I’d like to make some changes here and there, so would you mind ever so much if it takes about another month before I send it to you?”

“Sure, no problem. Take your time.”

The gracious response was tinged with light relief. They had another 449 manuscripts to work on.

After the call, I fell to my knees. I was faced with the mammoth task of re-writing the entire book again from scratch.

I wondered why God had allowed this to happen. He had seen how hard I had worked putting the whole thing together.

I turned inwards and did some soul reflection. Had I become proud about my gifting? Was I getting too big for my boots? Was I one of those deceived followers of Christ who thinks they are working for him but in reality, he wants nothing to do with it? Is that really where my manuscripts belonged – in the flames?

Words began to rise up in me as I imagined myself as a tiny orange, sitting in a fruit bowl among other exotic delicacies. A poem called, “I’m a Proud Little Orange” was born.

The most astounding thing about this was that after adding this new title to my revised manuscript, it became the poem that everybody said was their favourite. I had considered it to be a bit juvenile and a tad out of place compared to the other prose, but all my readers loved it.

Even now, 30 years on, (hear those needles clatter) I am still getting comments about that poem from that tiny little book that is now out of print.

So, I realised that sometimes tragedy is necessary in order for new things to be born and like that proud little orange who felt so smug that he was still whole in the bowl, while other fruit had been sliced and diced, sometimes our lives are more beneficial to God when we let him squeeze us so hard, that we produce fresh orange juice through the pain.

Come As You Are: Director’s Notes

At the beginning, the father is sitting on a chair in the CENTRE facing the audience. A table with a cake on top it, is positioned LEFT CENTRE. The son is standing DOWN RIGHT facing his father at an angle so his face can be seen by the audience. The Father speaks with authority but graciously and never with any impatience in his voice. He smiles at the son and follows him with his eyes. The son uses his eyes to indicate, suspicion fear and doubt. Sometimes he views the cake like it is going to harm him and at other times he looks at it unworthily as if it is too good for him to even touch.


Comes As You Are: Suggested Summary

To be conducted preferably by either:

A group leader.

A church leader.

The Narrator.

Thank you for sitting patiently, watching, and listening while our students brought this great story to life by their excellent performance.

We hope that in this short time, you have gained a deeper insight into how amazing God is when we let him work in our lives.

Like the son in the play, you may be struggling to accept the fact that God loves you and want to give you good things. Or you may just find it hard to believe that he gave us his only son Jesus, to die for our sins.

In the Bible, God says, “Taste and see that the Lord is good.”  Just like the free chocolate cake seems too good to be true, Jesus really is God’s gift to us even though we did not deserve him, nor can we do anything to justify having him in our lives. People pay for things or do work to receive a reward, but Jesus is not like that – he is a free gift.

If you would like the opportunity to get to know Jesus better and have a close relationship with God the father, there is a simple prayer you can pray right now.

We have to first acknowledge that we need to be forgiven of our sin. Sin is anything we do, think, or say that is displeasing to God, which includes living a life independently of him.

When you become a Christian, your problems do not just suddenly go away. There will still be enemies to face, debts to pay, sickness and pain, fear, and loneliness. But the difference is that you will have the King of kings walking alongside you to help you, guide you, comfort you, deliver you, strengthen, and give you hope and peace. Best of all, you will have the assurance that when you die, you will be taken in God’s kingdom, Heaven, to live with him forever.

So now we will talk to God. If you mean what you say, God will hear you. Don’t look for outward signs of feeling different or crying. Some of you may, but some may not. That’s okay because God is concerned with your heart.

Also, some of you may feel embarrassed to admit you have prayed this prayer and some may be concerned about what your friends will think. Remember two things. 1. You came into this world on your own and you will die on your own. Nobody else will be able to save you, so it really is nobody else’s business what you are doing right now. When you stand before God at the end of your life, those friends whose opinions you were afraid of, won’t be there to help persuade God to let you into Heaven.

Secondly, you may not have another chance to get your life right with your Creator, so please take this opportunity to sort things out with God right now.

Dear God,

Thank you for reminding us that Jesus is a free gift to all, because you love us so dearly.

Thank you for your promise that if we give our lives wholeheartedly to you, we can receive, strength, peace, wisdom, and comfort. I desperately want those things and I want to be free from the guilt of my sin, so I humbly come before you now to give my life to you.

I am sorry for the wrong things I have done in my life, which you call sin.

I acknowledge that I was born a sinner, which means that it’s in my nature to do things that displease you. I know that this includes the deepest thoughts and attitudes of my heart and the real motives behind everything I do.

Please forgive me for those sins and especially for the sin of keeping you out of my life.

Even though you love me, I know that because you are a God of justice and holiness, if I die without having my sins forgiven, I will spend eternity without you, in a terrible place called Hell.

I acknowledge that I need you and I want you in my life.

I believe that Jesus Christ is your son and that he died on the cross to pay the penalty for my sins. I believe he rose again and is the living power that can take the Devil’s hold off my life. Please come into my life now and touch my heart with your forgiveness and love. I want to have a relationship with and get to know you more. My very being was created for this purpose and without you, my hunger for peace and happiness will never be satisfied.

I give you my life now. Please lead me to people who will help me become a good strong Christian and who will show me how to relate to the things of God. Help me to find a Bible that suits my understanding and a church that I can call home.

Thank you, Lord. I believe by faith now that you have answered my prayer. I believe that no matter how bad I may feel about myself in the future, you have forgiven me and saved me from my sins. Thank you. Amen.

Tweens: Sly Moves

what's the score?

what's the score?

Teenage Years: Paranoid Parent

I sat mesmerised, staring at the television screen. Erin from The Waltons was positioned on a swivel stool, facing a large board that was double the width of her desk. The board was covered in tiny holes, and some had been plugged with what looked like sticks attached to string. Every now and then, she would pull a stick out and place it into a different hole. As this oblong piece of metal entered a new orifice, a tiny bulb would light up to confirm a connection had been made. Eventually the wires would cross over each other like a giant game of Cat’s Cradle, but this meant that many people were satisfactorily connected to each other and communicating. I gathered from my dad that the contraption she was playing with was a telephone switchboard and she was known as a telephonist, which in later years, became described as a switchboard operator. It was the most fascinating thing I had ever seen.

Sometimes she pulled a connector out too soon which meant she cut off the call too early and would have to face an irate customer shouting at her through the headphones she was wearing. It was indeed a pretty fast paced job, but I decided then and there that this is what I wanted to do when I left school. I was about ten years old at the time, but had my mind made up: I was going to be a telephonist.

Years later when my own daughter was 12, I was reading information about the revised examination requirements for 15–16-year-olds. Every test was going to be harder, and Science and Geography would contain more mathematical questions.

All modern foreign language papers would now be submitting their questions in their native tongue and course-work for all subjects would only contribute to a tiny percentage of the final score. This meant that children who were better at practical work rather than written tests, would have to face the fact that it’s now all about memory recall in a stressful atmosphere of silence and adjudicators, rather than taking the time to decide how to display a beautiful presentation of research and ideas, which they’ve had time to plan throughout the year.

I sat back on my chair and breathed hard. Sarah was not even a teenager yet, so why the panic? I looked across at myself in the mirror and wondered if I was becoming my mother.

The thought of this gripped me with more fear than that of my offspring leaving school with no qualifications.

“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! Lord, help me! Please don’t let me morph into my mum!”

I could hear the cries of parental woes in my head: “The pressure on children today is phenomenal and the fight for college places and vocational courses is getting fiercer.”

But, when I began this story, I had something else on my mind: my experience of living with a paranoid parent.

With all due respect, my dear mum meant well. But she’s always been a bit of a panicker and struggles to trust in the Lord’s providence, owing to past bad experiences where she failed to recognise his hand in the situation. He turns all bad around for good if we let him, but when we choose to forget this, it turns us into worry-worts and the devil has fun filling our head with ‘what ifs’.

Most black kids – ‘African American’, if you’re from across the Atlantic – are brought up with the notion that ethnic children have to work harder, be smarter, more assertive and more alert than their white counterparts. A pushy negro parent is going to drum this into their nappy-head offspring till it’s ringing in their ears.

Unfortunately, I was no exception and was frequently told by my mother, “Black people must make the effort to get ahead.” I was rather nonplussed about all this and was happy to just play with my white friends in the school yard without any notion that they will get better jobs than me or have their C.V.s placed on top of mine. Plus we were Christians. Christians don’t panic…do they?

I scratched my head in confusion, dislodging a bunch of hair from the decorative comb that was at the side of my temple. Big clumpy strands stuck up erect, pointing to the ceiling like a devil’s horn. Maybe this was why black kids were pushed aside. With hair that stayed upright once the wind blew it that way, maybe some cream skinned people were nervous that we might be little brown imps put on this earth to cause havoc in every corner. Vaseline (petroleum jelly) used to be the substance Caribbean parents used to try to keep strands horizontal. Great big dollops of it would be smeared across the scalp in an effort to moisten the brittle locks and make them look smooth.

In reality, it clogged our pores, and the modern replacements such as Blue Magic, smelt horrible. At least Vaseline was odour free!

Because of this, I did everything I could to draw people’s attention away from the top of my head. There was an Italian girl 2 years older than I, who at school, would occasionally stop in the corridor and enquire, “Do you comb your hair with a fork?”

A rough boy in my class called, Michael McDonald used to revel in throwing racist jeers at me to make his buddies laugh. Thus, each morning when I entered the class he would say,

“What’s the matter? Never mind. Go to bed and you’ll be alright in the morning.”

Well what’s wrong with that? He never pronounced it like that. His version was,

“Wogga matter? Nigga mind. Go to bed and you’ll be all white on the morning.”

I suspected that these were the type of people my mother wanted me to supersede, just to teach them a lesson, if nothing else.

So, when I reached the tender age of 13, my mother decided it was time to take serious action.

“You need to apply for a job. Then, when you are 16, you will have one already lined-up for you.”

She made me sit down and apply for two jobs. I don’t mean weekend posts. I am talking about ‘jump ahead of those white kids by starting your career now’ jobs. The first letter I was made to write was to a bank (TSB) the other to British Telecom, because of my fascination with Erin Walton.

I was okay with the salutation, but cringed when she made me sign off the letters by saying,

“I humbly look forward to a reply.”

I don’t think they were convinced I was humble. They certainly must have thought I was unhinged.

Nevertheless, both managers graciously replied by thanking me for my interest and suggested that I write to them again in 3 years’ time after I had completed my exams.

I breathed a sigh of relief that my life could return to normal again. But my mum was not satisfied. I saw her coming towards me and feigned tiredness.

“I think I’ll go to bed now.”

I ran to my room and searched for the grease-stained cloth I used to tie my unruly curls down with at night. There was no time to plait it in like I needed to if I was to have a free half hour before leaving for school the next day. I decided I would just have to stick a metal comb on the gas hob and try to straighten the spools. The cloth was covered in hair pomade and smelt of lanolin. Tough. No time to search for a clean one – I had to jump into bed quickly.

“Sharon, wait a minute – before you go to bed – I need to you write this address down somewhere. Do you have a notebook?”

Nah. No phones in those days. No fancy diaries. Just odd bits of paper and…

“Ah, I know…” said Mum too enthusiastically. “your knicker drawer.”

“Eh?”

“It’s got good solid wood at the base and the pen won’t rub off on there. Here…write this address on the bottom of your drawer. You’ll never lose it then.”

So there I was, dragged out of bed to go and push my undies aside so I could use the base as a notepad.

Mum stood over me as I carefully wrote:

Mr. D.G.Waring

Personnel Manager

Trustee Savings Bank

34 Market Place

Reading

Hertfordshire

The only thing I cannot remember as I write this today is the postcode, but it began ‘RG’.

For many years, each time I was running out of underwear, I saw this note staring up at me reminding me that mummy was ever so keen on wanting to tell all her friends that her Sharon was a banker, and TSB if you please!

I did actually secure a job in a bank 4 years later and I started the job on the Monday after I left school. Yes, this was a blessing to jump straight out of education into a highly esteemed job, but it wasn’t what I had really wanted to do.

It was more the respectable thing that gives mummy and daddy something to be proud of when people ask, “What’s your daughter doing now?”

Anyway, I decided to not follow in my dear mother’s footsteps and just leave my Sarah to decide on her own future. It’s okay to do that when you are walking with the Lord, because,

I also learnt a few things from my own childhood experience:

  1. God responded to my mum’s prayers which were more effective than trying to get me to do silly, competitive things.
  2. Don’t live your life out in your children – it never works.
  3. Be pleased for them no matter what they end up doing.
  4. Don’t waste time wanting to be better than everyone. My mum was mortified at the thought of me ending up working in a supermarket, but what if I had done? Let boasters boast and mockers mock. I actually liked Michael McDonald, and when I remember his racist ditty, it doesn’t upset me – it is a fun memory of the silliness of childhood. I found the Italian girl more annoying, but looking back, she was just 16 and very vain. I loved the Italians in our area because most of them were really friendly. She was just an exception.
  5. Our children’s happiness is more important than our ego.
  6. Friends who mock your kids for being in a less fortunate position than their kids, are not really your friends, so remove them from your life.
  7. Don’t be paranoid. Encourage your children to do their best but recognise it’s not healthy to try to instil competitiveness in them all the time.
  8. If you are going to follow in my mother’s footsteps, do not use the kicker drawer. Invest in a nice notebook, or pretty diary or bless your tween with a modern smartphone to record all the addresses they’ll need in 5 years’ time.

Thankfully, I ended up enjoying my time in banking, where I remained for 16 years. But I had no desire to climb the corporate ladder, nor strive for promotion and was happy to remain doing the tasks I loved. Who cares about status? No matter how far we go in our careers, nobody cares when we die. Somebody else will take our place and no memorial plaques will be put up in our remembrance. And even if they did, it means nothing in the light of eternity. We live, we die, so at least exist for what you enjoy doing according to what brings God glory and strive to bless others in the process.

Finally, leave your 13-year-olds to decide what they want to do when they’re older and let them apply for jobs at a more appropriate time, even if you are black.

The only time you should ignore this advice is if they invent a hair pomade formula that softens kinky heads without making your pillowcase stink. In this case, get them on ‘Dragons Den’ as soon as possible.

Teenage Years: Remember Charlie?

(You may need to refer to the Glossary)

Finally, I had one! My mum bought me a ‘Harri’! Now I was going to be one of the stylish 14-year-olds who possessed the coolest jacket of the decade. With its token red-tartan lining and tight elasticated sleeves, I now had the pluck to swagger through the school gates with my head held high.

Not any old Harrington would do – they had to be black. And wearers had to like pop groups such as The Specials, Madness, Bad Manners and UB40. In reality, Ska music was a bit too ethnic for me and I secretly preferred the New Romantics. All my friends were white, so there were no black kids to hang out with and be tribal. Each time ‘Red, Red Wine’ was played in the lunchtime social rooms, kids expected me to begin dancing with my head like Ali Campbell and crew did, which infuriated me. No, it was Hungry Like the Wolf, Don’t You Want Me Baby? and Vienna that got me moving. So, to match the music genre a Harrington wearer was supposed to be into, I settled for Madness and bought an ‘I love Suggs!’ badge, which I wore with pride on my trendy collar.

I was being delusional however, for my stylish jacket was accompanied by a calf-length pleated school-skirt. Waist-up, I was a modern teenager; waist-down, an old age pensioner. Skinny legs have never looked graceful under a pleated skirt, especially when it’s almost down to your ankles. To top off this granny look, my mum had insisted that I wear ugly, flat, brown shoes that were a size too big for me. She had become exasperated that my footwear wore out too quickly, so in her frugal wisdom, she procured a pair of what can only be described as miniature boats. The soles curled up at both ends, which meant that when my feet were not inside them, they would rock from side to side at the slightest gush of wind. Worst still, ‘female boy shoes’ did not come into fashion until 9 years later, so my peers wore pretty feminine heels, in all colours of the rainbow.  

No kid likes to be different. I had wanted to be like the others and with my new outer garment, I had deceived myself into thinking I was.

The token tight mini-skirt or drainpipe trousers which were normally worn with Harringtons, graced the legs of every other female who possessed one. Theirs also smelt of cigarette smoke and rebellion.

Being oblivious to this fashion faux pas, when I looked into the mirror, all I could see was my top half and boy, didn’t I look snazzy!

Now, there’s nothing like one of your peers to bring you down a peg or two:

Especially if it’s a teenager.

Especially if it’s at school.

Especially if it’s another girl.

One day, I mustered the courage to take the quicker route to the Science block. This meant passing the bicycle shed. The bell had not yet rung for the next lesson, so there was still a waft of smoke that could be seen rising from the top of the old brickwork. As I approached it, the ‘tough brigade’ peered at me suspiciously through their nicotine fog and looked me up and down.

I pondered on whether to give them a jovial “Watcha Mate!” (hello) or to just walk past briskly. As most of the stares remained in the down position, thus focussing on my lower half, I decided on the latter.

My hideous boat shoes struggled to keep up with my stride and subsequently lolled off my heels as I dashed to class. Flip flops would have been quicker to walk in and suddenly the thought of my Science lesson seemed very appealing.

“Oi!” Came a shout from behind.

I grabbed a bubble gum from my pocket and turned up my collar, as casually as possible. If only I had smothered some more eyeliner on during the break! That always made me feel more confident, but then, that’s what Jezebel did and she was evil.

“Oi! You!”

I turned around wishing that my gum wasn’t still so sweet, as I needed to blow a big bold bubble to boost the tough-nut image I was desperately trying to convey.

“What?” I replied as dauntlessly as I could.

The girls were still looking down at my legs. Smirks, grins and giggles were not welcome by me, but that’s what I was getting.

“Charlie’s dead.”

Our eyes met. I was mortified and jealous at the same time. The cringe came from the fact that she was referring to my underwear. The jealousy was because her jaws had already been masticating gum for quite some time and she blew an enormous bubble.

“Thank you.” I replied and giggled nervously.

The phrase ‘Charlie’s dead’ dates back to when King Charles 2nd died, and mourning women lowered their petticoats in respect – similar to flying a flag at half-mast. So, when your petticoat or half-slip was showing from under your clothes, people would let you know by reminding you of King Chuck’s demise. It was always done very loudly.

In my school days it was common for girls to wear half-slips, which were basically satin under-skirts. There were even ones with slits in to be worn with pencil skirts. I don’t know why we ever wore them at school, for our skirts were never see-through or cold. And of course, the wretched things would never stay where they were, but would ride down past your hem as if you’d forgotten to remove your nightie.

As I glanced down, my offending garment was near my ankles. No amount of bubble blowing would make me look cool now. I made a feeble attempt at singing one of my favourite songs. I couldn’t bust out, ‘Heart and Soul’ like Carol Decker, but the gutsy melody helped relieve my anxiety. I placed my hands beneath my skirt and grabbed the slip’s waistband, yanking it upwards with all my might.

 “Pop!”

The coveted gum.

My mocker glared at me expressionless, while flicking her tongue out to retrieve the pink mess that was stuck to her top lip.

“He’s still dead.” She said, chewing slowly.

Sure enough, it was still hanging beneath my skirt hem and it took several adjustments before it disappeared.

It was too late to avoid ridicule. As I dashed off to class, I could hear chants of, “Charlie…Charlie…Charlie!” in a high-pitched voices.

I’m so glad half-slips have gone out of fashion, together with its irritating phrase.

Sayings come and go. We often hear the older generation complaining that words have lost their original meaning; ‘Sick’, ‘gay’ and ‘wicked’ being just a few.

He means what he says and his promises last forever. What brought consolation and reassurance years ago, still do today:

The grass withers and the flowers fade, but the word of the Lord endures forever. (1Peter 1:24-25 & Isa 40:8 NLT)

Charlie died along with the saying associated with droopy undergarments, but I am glad that in a time of turmoil and chaos, I can trust that when God says “Do not fear.” he means it, so I don’t need to bite my fingernails or grow a stomach ulcer through worry.

Teenage Years: Tested Friendship

At my high school, the sixth formers were allowed to wear their own clothes. If you’re from the USA or another country that doesn’t have uniform rules, this will seem trivial to you. Similarly, if you’re from the UK but transferred to a separate college at 16, you may also find this fact of little consequence.

However, many schools south of the London border, ran vocational and A level courses; thus, once we completed our first exams, we continued going to school, studying in the same classrooms as we did in our former years. The only difference was that we now had the privilege of wearing what we liked. It seemed like it was a big jump to go from adhering to a strict uniform to picking a casual outfit out of our wardrobes, so much so that we often arrived at our lessons inappropriately dressed. We couldn’t seem to just do the ‘American thing’ and turn up in a hoodie and jeans. There was a gay guy in one of my classes who would always wear a cream suit with a red bow tie, but he got away with it by being so camp.

One day, I entered my form room to see my best friend Joanne, looking agitated. The attendance register was about to be taken before we all dispersed to our various lessons, but as the teacher was late, Jo wanted to take advantage of this by dashing into the corridor.

“Follow me out of the door. Keep really close behind me! Very close!”

She glanced across shyly at a group of boys who had gathered near the teacher’s table. They appeared engrossed in a magazine and were not taking any notice of Joanne, but nevertheless, she seemed very keen to get away from them as quickly as possible.

I frowned at her intently.

“Eh? Why? What are you up to?

“Please!” Came her desperate reply, “Just follow me out really closely!”

I’m sorry to say that I was not a very loyal friend to poor Jo. I knew she must have done something daft and assumed that if I obeyed her instructions, I’d miss it.

So, instead, of dutifully acting like her dance partner, I hung back to peruse the view from behind.

It was a chilly day in March, yet she was dressed like she was going to a summer ball. She had on a 1950’s party dress, with a tight bodice and one of those skirts that splayed outwards like an umbrella. At the back of the dress, there was a deep V-shape cut in the material. Showing through the V was white lace and it was evident that this was not part of the original garment. I wondered if her mum was pacing around at home, furious that someone had stolen her net curtain. It was indeed a bedroom curtain that Joanne was wearing. She had always been creative and had thought that stuffing her mother’s drapes under her dress would make it look classier.

The net had shifted and was trailing way beneath the hem of the dress. *Charlie had truly died and gone to Heaven.

When she explained her haberdashery endeavours of the morning, I laughed so hard that my stomach hurt for the rest of the day. One thing bugged me though: I hadn’t covered her ‘shame’.

She had entered the classroom knowing she looked ridiculous. Efforts to shift the lace back into place hadn’t worked and while she had kept her back to the wall, thoughts of me coming to her aid had given her hope. I had let her down. She’d been relying on me to protect her from further embarrassment, but instead,

What is a true friend? One who laughs with you is great. One who doesn’t get offended when you laugh at them, is even greater. But better still, is one who not only watches your back, but supports you in times of desperation. One you can reply on to protect you by walking closely beside you or behind you, just at the right time.

*See previous chapter

Do You Want to Write a Book? You Can Do It!

Words are churning in your head and you are excited about the thought of them being formatted into some sort of order that would describe it as your first book. Go for it – I know you can do it.

But yea, it’s easy to say that when you’ve already done it. To master just the page layout can be feat in itself and you don’t know if you’ll have the patience to display your thoughts in a way that compliments your style.

Sorry to sound a little casual, but this really isn’t your biggest problem. In my humblest, humble opinion, the hardest hurdles are pertaining to the mind itself, not the book.

The article below is my take on how to overcome the biggest mental challenges. Some snippets of advice are for everybody, but some parts relate solely to Christian writers, because their faith will be at play also.

Whoever you are and whatever you believe, this one notion is true for everybody:

There are nine basic human desires that I believe can stand in the way of emotional success if not kept regularly in check.

We don’t go around consciously declaring:

“I want to be liked.”

“I want to be understood.”

“I want to be heard.”

“I want to be appreciated.”

“I want to be taken seriously.”

“I want to be trusted.”

“I want to be believed.”

“I want to be accepted.”

“I want to be admired.”

but that is what we all think in varying degrees, and for some of us, it is a daily subconscious declaration.

It shows itself in the way we behave towards others and in the decisions we make. All of the statements have the power to become too much of a stronghold in our lives and that is where things can begin to go wrong.

1: I want to be liked.

Everybody has opinions and they will often differ from yours. Accept it. Don’t fight it. Don’t try to make people like you by being something you are not. Yes, by all means continually strive to improve your own personality (the Epistles are perfect for highlighting weakness and sins) but don’t become a people-pleaser or a sycophant. Remember, Jesus said that you are not greater than your master. If people hate him, they will hate you, no matter what you do to try to appease them.

2: I want to be understood

You can take two hours clearly explaining your thoughts and the listener hears, but hasn’t grasped what you were trying to put across. Accept that they are wired differently to you and may never see your point of view even if they lived another 100 years.

An author friend of mine was rejected by a mainstream publisher because they thought her book was written in a way that southern people would not understand. She refused to change the dialect and local jargon because she wanted the northern humour to be authentic. I read it and it was indeed too vernacular for me, and I didn’t understand the subtle northern humour at all. I was brought up in the south and so many incidents and phrases in her book could not be appreciated by my brain. Although I admired her for sticking to her guns, it turns out that the publisher was right. When I read it, I could not hear the accents, mannerisms and idiosyncrasies of the area she was portraying. It took me 6 years to realise why certain things were said in the way they were. It’s a shame because it was a fantastic story.

If people cannot identify with certain things you are saying, they may not understand your book as much as others. But that doesn’t matter in the long run. Even though the publisher my friend spoke to was right, there may be one day when a northern playright is looking for a story just like hers, and she will become an overnight success. She was happy with the choice she made and you need to do the same, even if it means less people like your work.

3: I want to be heard

People want a voice, but there are times when we must stop talking and hear what others are saying.We have to ask ourselves, “Is what I am saying more important than what that person is trying to say to me?”

So, how does this relate to writing? Your topic may not be a favourable one. You are getting your point of view across in print, but it may be emotionally difficult to read. Think about how different people are going to perceive your words and accept that not everybody is going to want to hear them at this moment in time.

God doesn’t always want us to display ourselves in the way we are trying to, and left unchecked, we can come across as attention-seekers. Regarding Christian books, “This is me.” Is not as important as, “This is He.” But, even when we are promoting Jesus, others don’t necessarily want to hear that, no matter how eloquently he is presented. Accept that it was the wrong time and that you may be given an opportunity to try again at a later date.

4: I want to be appreciated

So, you stayed up late to finish your last chapter. Your neck hurts, your eyes are sore and your wrists are stiff. You missed time with your family, your favourite TV show and precious hours of sleep. The world cries, “So what?”

You spent hours on YouTube trying to find a tutorial on how to number pages correctly, set margins, prevent text from wandering off the page, add headers, keep line spacing consistent, find all the hidden typos, and add page breaks, but the videos you found may as well have been in Greek.

By the time you managed it, you had missed 3 meals and are seeing double. The world cries, “So what?”

You went into the woods with your new camera to find the best snapshots for your front cover. When you tried to insert the picture, it was all misaligned. The pigeon in the bottom of the photo was taking centre stage, leaving 2 petals from the beautiful dahlias up in the far corner. It made you scream, then you wept till dawn. The world cries, “So what?”

Our desire for appreciation although valid, can turn us into insecure people. When unfulfilled, it can make us angry and at worst, depressed. Not everyone will give you validation for the effort you made. They are busy working hard themselves. Be proud of yourself, but stop expecting others to be.

5: I want to be taken seriously

Who likes to be regarded as a fool or uncool? When Jesus was teaching in the temple, his neighbours from his hometown couldn’t take him seriously because all they saw was the boy whom they grew up with from an insignificant family, living a mediocre life, in an insignificant district. It doesn’t matter if you never got a grade in English language or struggle with dyslexia. It you believe you can write a book, then you can. You may end up in a position like Dougal and Rakesh below, but timing is everything, so comfort yourself by all those tales about how famous story writers were initially rejected hundreds of times before somebody took them seriously.

6: I want to be trusted

I am a stickler for credibility and I’m sure you are too. Our natural human inclinations mean we are liable to judge people wrongfully owing to not being able to see past the obvious. For example, if Dougal MacTavish wrote an Indian curry cookbook, it may well be the best one around. In the bookshop, seeing Dougal’s book next to that of Rakesh Singh’s, which one am I likely to buy? With not much information to go on, I am going to grab Rakesh’s book. Likewise, if Rakesh learnt how to make the tastiest haggis in town, but Dougal’s haggis cookbook is sitting next to his on the shelf, I am going to buy his.

With this in mind, don’t be offended if people are put off buying your book because there are not many Amazon reviews. Telling them they can get a refund if they don’t like it, does not register in some minds – it’s not much hassle, but it feels like it is, and therefore, this is not much of an incentive to make a purchase. Added to this is the fact that we don’t read as much as we used to, nor do we have the space for another book in our house. Now, some people love books and prefer having items in print. But they might not be keen on your genre. Personally, I am wary of anything sci-fi or fantasy and I’m not too keen on romance novels. However, I decided to buy a fellow writer’s fantasy book and it was brilliant. I also borrowed a book from the library that was recommended by a stranger on YouTube and I loved it. But not everybody likes to take that risk. Accept it and move on.

7: I want to be believed

Many Christians encounter supernatural experiences that they are excited to share with the world. Unfortunately, because there are a myriad of deceivers out there, some people may be wary of any stories that involve miracles. Your testimony is your testimony, but know that there will always be folk who struggle to believe the accuracy of your tale.

My own mother enjoyed my book, “God Loves Children”, but she struggled with the chapter entitled, The Mystery of the Disappearing Boy. I have never told her the story, so that was the first red flag for her. She is naturally somebody who questions everything, so the fact that she found this story unbelievable was heightened by the fact that I had never mentioned it.

She said to me one day, “Is that story true?” Everything in me wanted to scream, “How could you doubt me, your own daughter, as to whether I made that up or not? Of course it is true! Where on the back cover is it mentioned that this is a work of fiction?”

I suddenly realised I was feeling insulted and disrespected, so I took a deep breath and laughed.

I gave myself as pep talk: “If my own mum wants to doubt the validity of a story, so what? She enjoyed the book didn’t she? Don’t I question things if they sound far-fetched? Be thankful that you know this was true and that if people have a hard time believing it, it confirms how miraculous it really was and how blessed you are for being chosen by God to encounter such an experience.”

Even Jesus’ own siblings didn’t believe he was the Messiah, so brace yourself – you are not as wonderful as him, so it’s likely that there may come a time when close friends and family doubt some of the things you say. Don’t take it personally just because they know you well.

A good example of how we are desperate to be believed is evident in the popular televsion shows, “The Traitors, UK/USA/Australia”. It doesn’t matter which one you watch, the psychology is the same – people hate being doubted.

It starts off with 3-4 people who have been assigned as traitors and the remaining 18 are genuine members of the ‘good pack’. However, because nobody has any clues as to who the secret traitors are, there is a natural inclination to suspect innocent members of the team as being the deceivers, and they are subsquently falsely accused.

It’s only a game, but human reasoning dictates that when you’re being accused of something you are not guilty of, you will forget it’s just a game and take it badly. Thus, in each show, viewers witness emotionally mature men displaying uncontrollable anger and the coolest of men bursting into tears.

Viewers at home are shouting, “Get a grip! It’s not real!” But to the one being falsely accused, it is taken personally.

You have no control over who is going to doubt you – just don’t doubt yourself.

8: I want to be accepted

You may try to get your manuscript accepted by a mainstream publisher because of the genre or some other reason. If they don’t accept it, it will more than likely be for the reasons I stated in my post, Are You Still Whole in the Bowl? Don’t take the rejection to heart. It doesn’t mean you are no good, nor does it mean that you are not as good as those authors who have copies of their books gracing the shelves of popular bookstores.

Never let rejection cause you to feel defeated. Think of the amount of people you know who can sing beautifully. Are they all recording artists? Have they been offered  a 10 year contract with a record label? Have they been welcomed into the world of theatre and do they receive regular job offers for the next big performance? Even those who have managed to secure a place on a TV talent show end up being sidelined by the winner and rarely heard of again. That doesn’t mean they didn’t have amazing talent.

It may be that the genre you write in doesn’t seem to match who you are. A young male author may be laughed at for writing children’s stories. An elderly author may be considered strange for writing youth fantasy. A goth may be  ridiculed for penning soppy poetry. An obese person may be mocked for their passion for producing cookbooks on Vegan recipes and a middle aged businessman may have to keep it quiet that he loves to churn out romantic novels.

Follow your writing passion no matter if there is a risk of it producing derision. Being who you are is far better than conforming to the mould people expect you to fit into. If it’s not a sin, then jump right in!

9: I want to be admired

Ah yes, it feels lovely to be admired. Even Christians who are ever aware that pride comes before a fall, go just as gooey inside as anyone, when somebody gives them a compliment. Accept any approbation received, graciously, but don’t make that your goal. Know in yourself that you have done a good job, but that the glory ultimately goes to God. He is the one who gave you the talent. He is the one who kept your brain active and your creativity in full flow. He is the one who gave you sleep to be refreshed and food to stay physically strong. He is the one who allowed all those negative and positive experiences to happen in your life, to give you either stories or a passion for a certain field of interest. Enjoy what you do, but admire the One who inspired you to do it.

Admiration when received in excess is not good. We humans simply cannot handle it in abundance.

I could name hundreds of thousands of people who became crippled under the weight of human glory:

Elvis Presley, Marilyn Munroe, Whitney Houston, Charlie Sheen, Amy Winehouse, Robin Williams, Britney Spears, Matthew Perry.

These make up one tiny drop in the massive bucket of success. You could name far more than me, I know. You are welcome to draw up a longer list.

As a writer, don’t ask yourself, “Do I want to be admired?” You are human and therefore, you already do. As yourself a better question: Why do I want to be admired?”

Ask God to reveal any insecurity and pride in you and to help you become more secure in who you are as a person. Even better, ask him to allow a situation to happen whereby somebody lies about you, criticises you, or puts a negative spin on someting good you did. How did you react and how do you feel? That in itself will identify how much your desire for admiration has gone too far. Then, you’ll be able to get back on track.

I hope this has helped you a little. It is wonderful to be able to have a collection of memories or reflections all in one place that you can return to as often as you like. Make your book for you, not for profit or accolade. If you get both of those things, be thankful, but never take your eyes off the fact that writing books is firstly a fun way to express yourself, for yourself, and if you are fortunate enough to fulfill your desire to bless others in the process, that’s a remarkable added bonus.

I wish you all the best. Let me know how you get on.

Teenage Years: Victory Over Victor

I was feeling rather anxious. My teenage daughter was singing along to a song on Capital Radio. The day before, I had been bobbing up and down in the driver’s seat to the same song, but had stopped when my ‘all too fussy Christian head’ warned me that I should perhaps find out what the lyrics were before I give my parental approval.

On checking the words, my suspicions were confirmed. The non-radio version of this song contained F-words and such and I wasn’t keen on Sarah liking it, even if the version being played in the car was cleaner.

She scowled as I lowered the volume. She grimaced even further when I switched it off. She pouted when I began my ‘Christian mother’s wise explanation.’

As she emerged from the car and headed towards her school, my stomach flipped as my eye scanned rebellious-looking girls in their 3 inch-long, skirts. Tight as a bandage on a bruised arm. I thanked God that Sarah was too self-conscious to wear one, as she considered her legs to be too slim. But, if she had been happy to wear a skirt, how I would get her to hold her head high in a knee-length, A-line one was beyond me.

“It’s their parents’ fault.” I would tell her. “They should set an example by submitting to authority. The school’s rule is that skirts should reach no higher than the knee and be loose on the legs. As Christians, we need to honour the instructions we’ve been given and show respect by obeying the guidelines. Geesh, if I was a boy, I would love going to this school!”

She’d heard this, many times. I knew what she was thinking:

“Only the geeky girls wear pleats. You know, those who are into computer coding and spend their break times in the library. And a few Muslims, but most of them wear trousers.”

I sighed as I turned the car round and drove past a row of black-nylon thighs.

“Be anxious for nothing…” I heard inside my head.

“…but in everything, with prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, make your requests known to God…”

I thanked the Holy Spirit for the timely reminder and begun to pray.

“I’m so worried Lord. She doesn’t show any interest in the things my sister and I did at that age and her church is much more vibrant than ours was. We didn’t have…”

My comparisons drifted away as I realised that I was sounding like a mithering old lady.

“…and the peace of God which surpasses all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”

Was I at peace? No. I was letting fear have control instead of asking God for parental wisdom, then trusting him to take the lead.

There are times in my life when halfway through a panicky prayer, I sense the Holy Spirit coming up behind me with one eyebrow raised. I then sense one of those clearing of throats that people do when they are trying to get someone’s attention. Right there in the car, there was a very high eyebrow in my imagination and the throat-clearing was so loud, I knew a rebuke was coming.

“So…you have forgotten, haven’t you?”

“Forgotten what, Lord?”

“What you were like. At that age.”

“Umm?”

“No, I’m not talking about your school skirt. I know you looked like a granny. I’m talking about your taste in secular music.”

“What, Madness?”

He shook his head.

“That dodgy song by The Specials?”

“No, that isn’t what I’m referring to. Though you’re catching on, I see. You’ve remembered how you loved blurting out that undesirable lyric at the end of their song, but it’s the song from another group which I’d like you to focus on. Think harder.”

The penny dropped. Blondie. Her song, ‘Victor’.

“Oh yes. You’re there. Now, remember how much you loved that song because most of it was just screaming? And how loudly you would play it in your bedroom? And that particular line you used to shout out along with Debbie Harry? With glee? You would screw up your nose, close your eyes and bellow together, a phrase, which if your daughter sang it, you’d be aghast.

Then, the head-banging near the end of the song when the rhythm changed? You remember, don’t you?”

I smiled guiltily as I recalled the passion with which I played that song over and over again. I had hollered, thrashed my head about and revelled in its air of insurgence.

“Now imagine that Sarah comes home tonight, goes into her room and plays that song with the same gusto you did.”

I got his point. ‘Victor’ sounds like the type of song one would only like if one was suffering from deep mental disturbance. Yep, despite the foul language in the one Sarah was enjoying earlier, it was a nursery rhyme compared to this.

“And you turned-out okay, didn’t you?”

“Er, yea. Kind of.”

“Because?”

I hadn’t yet learnt the lesson he was trying to teach me.

“Ah. Because I had…praying parents. A mum and dad who were a little worried, but who brought their concerns to the foot of the cross and trusted You to sort them out.”

Later on, I shared this chastising revelation with my husband and laughing, he said,

“At least you weren’t into the Sex Pistols like I was.”

He blinked his eyes rapidly like he does when his mind is flicking back to the past and he warbled a line in a weird cockney voice,

“God…save…the Queen!” then chuckled as he walked away.

I realised that we cannot shield our children from the world around them. They may indeed at some point, have odd friends. Yes, bad company corrupts good morals and while our children are young, we should endeavour to steer them away from those we know aren’t suitable companions; but there will come a time when they are old enough to make their own choices and all we can do then, is pray for them and be willing to give gracious advice when asked. But also, those unsuitable peers can become pillars of society years later, ending up being good, strong role models who will lead our very own children onto the right paths.

I realised also, that God wants us to persevere. Don’t give up. Never stop praying and trusting him to perfect the outcomes.

He promises us that, ‘The heartfelt and persistent prayer of a righteous man is able to accomplish much when put into action and made effective by God. It is dynamic and can have tremendous power.’ (James 5:16)

If you have a child who is unteachable, wayward and totally uninterested in the things of God, take heart, it’s not over. If your child is an adult now and still shows no signs of becoming the person you prayed them to be, take heart still. God is not deaf. He’s not senile and his memory is excellent. He remembers all the cries up to Heaven you have forgotten about.

It’s never too late to continue.

In the meantime, we mustn’t forget to thank him for all the good he’s already done and the stuff that he’s working on behind the scenes.

As I nipped onto YouTube to bring up Blondie’s hits, I thanked God for my parents and for the prayers they prayed for me that I didn’t even know about.

I found ‘Victor’ and pressed the play button. It still sounded like it should only be enjoyed by those who see demons in the kitchen, but knowing I was of sound mind, I decided that so long as I don’t make this choice of music a habit, I could have fun laughing at the memories it conjured up. Just memories of being young and innocent. I had no intention of habitually playing this kind of song, as I was well aware of how music is in influential in the unseen spirit realm and how the devil likes to use it to manipulate the minds and emotions of the unsuspecting.

Nevertheless, I played it as loud as I could without causing the neighbours to bang on the wall. I felt a little guilty after it finished. Not because I had blasted it out at top volume, but because for some strange reason, I still like it.

 

 

Glossary

I appreciate that the era and place where you were born and raised, may mean that some of my vocabulary and phrases are alien to you, so, here’s a little dictionary to help you along.

Preface

Jelly Tots: Little round pieces of fruit-flavoured candy made out of gelatine. Made specifically for young children, but I’ve spotted many an adult covertly popping one into their mouth.

Toddler Years: Giving in to Fear

Cadbury’s Crème Eggs: A chocolate in the shape and size of a chicken egg, Inside the hollow shape is a mass of thick, white, sticky, vanilla flavoured cream with a yellow centre of the same substance; designed to look like the yoke and albumen of a real egg. Sickly sweet, but delicious.

Pogo stick: Google definition: A toy for jumping about on, consisting of a long, spring-loaded pole with a handle at the top and rests for a person’s feet near the bottom.

I still want one.

Space hopper: Google definition: A toy for sitting on and bouncing around, consisting of a large orange (mine was yellow) ball made from rubber and having flexible projections at the top to hold on to.

Those, flexible projections, were not projected enough and my fists would often slide off them as they became sweaty. Hence the broken vases and bruises.

Katie Kopycat Doll: She was amazing! This doll sat at the opposite end of a table to yourself with a pen and paper and copied everything you wrote down. I still don’t know how she did it.

Primary Years: Quality Time

Kit Kat: A delicious chocolate bar with three thin layers of wafer in the middle. Originally packaged as four sticks, but owing to public obesity fear, they are now mostly sold in twos. For the sake of nostalgia, I tend to stick to the original four-stick consumption policy.

Tweens: Power Tools

Bible verse: Philippians 2:9-10 NLT

Tweens: The Mystery of the Disappearing Boy

TARDIS: Stands for: ‘Time and Relative Dimensions in Space’. (As if you care – I don’t either.) A science fiction time-travel machine from UK Sci-Fi drama, Dr. Who. It is a long, narrow black object, similar to an old, English phone box, yet upon entering, it was magically ten times the size inside. It had the power to disappear into thin air and resurface elsewhere.

Heelys: a sports shoe that looks like a trainer, but has one or more wheels embedded in each sole, so that the wearer can skate at considerable speed along the pavement, by placing their weight onto their heels.

Tweens: Swollen Rivers

Wee Willie Winkie: A character from a Scottish nursery rhyme who had annoying nocturnal habits similar to those of The Sandman.

Tweens: Remember Charlie?

Ska music: This originated in the 1950’s, but the SKA music of the early 80’s were mostly bands that consisted of young white boys who sang like they were bored and had a little bit of reggae infused in their tones. The most popular ones in the early 80’s were: The Specials, The Selecter, The Beat, Madness and Bad Manners. SKA actually stands for Skills, Knowledge & Ability, which when you listen to any of their songs, you may consider all three adjectives to be debatable.

Suggs: The lead singer of 80’s pop group, Madness.

Ali Campbell: The lead singer of white-reggae group, UB40 and the only person I know who can sing while chewing gum at the same time.

Bicycle shed: An outbuilding where pupils can safely store their bikes. More often used for clandestine kisses and a puff on a cigarette.

New Romantics: A type of music culture most dominant in the 1980’s although it began in the 70’s as it has its roots in Punk Rock. The music is characterised by the use of synthesized keyboards which were programmed to mimic the sound of conventional musical instruments.  The hairstyles were typically long fringes draping diagonally across one eye. Men had pale faces owing to make-up and they often wore eyeliner and lipstick. The clothes consisted of, smart trousers that were exceptionally baggy on the thigh, frilly long-sleeve shirts and also, smart suits with oversized shoulders. The female artists wore a variety of brightly coloured baggy clothing and typically had permed or spiky hair, no matter the length.

Hungry Like the Wolf: A hit by New Romantic band, Duran Duran.

Don’t You Want Me?: A hit by New Romantic band, The Human League.

Vienna: A hit by New Romantic band, Ultravox.

Red, Red, Wine: One of UB40’s most popular songs.

Heart and Soul: An 80’s song by pop group T’Pau. Carol Decker was the lead singer.

Jezebel an evil queen from the bible days who was manipulative if she didn’t get her own way. One day a man was approaching her about a serious matter, from which she knew she may not survive, so she dabbed kohl eyeliner onto her eyes in the hope that her beauty might dissuade him from punishing her.

Teenage Years: Victory Over Victor

Capital Radio: A regional radio station located in London.

Blondie: An 80’s pop group lead by singer Debbie Harry. She was very blonde.

‘Be anxious for nothing’ bible verse: Taken from Philippians 4:16 – Amplified Version

Sex Pistols: An English Punk Rock band from the 70’s, whose lyrics were so obscene that they were banned from being played on the radio. They encouraged rebellion and revelled in stirring up a spirit of anarchy amongst their avid followers.

Cockney: An east London accent, commonly associated with those from a working-class (low-class) background.

Various chapters

The Holy Spirit…is not some freaky, religious ghoul, peering at us through two holes in a white sheet. Jesus is physically in Heaven and the Holy Spirit is the presence of Jesus on earth. Don’t get too hung up about it. Like water, steam and ice, God is three persons in one, but with different roles. Ice is still water, but in a different form and one of its main functions is to preserve and cool. Water helps things to grow, cleans things and quenches thirst. Steam releases creases, opens pores, sterilises and cooks in a way that preserves vitamins.

Likewise, Jesus was the one who physically died on the cross for our sins and God, who remains in Heaven, is the one who sent him down to earth to pay the penalty for our sins. The Holy Spirit is most commonly known as, The Comforter.  Both him and Jesus were with God when he created the universe.

Christmas Tidings: Director’s Notes

Wise man 1 & 2 enter the stage and stand in the CENTRE, looking around as if they are lost. They are each holding their gifts. Wise man 3 follows them onto the stage but watches them from a distance. He is standing sideways on so that the audience can see his expression.

After Wise man 2 says, “did they sack the lot?”, Wise man 3 walks up to them and beckons them to draw close. He then whispers in their ears.

When Wise Man 1 begins talking about how Jesus was not born in December, the other two look at each other and roll their eyes. Wise Man 3 shakes his head throughout this dialogue and repetitively waves his hand dismissively, indicating that he is not wanting to get into a discussion about this and deems it unimportant.

As they continue to talk, they remain in the CENTRE, facing the audience.

When they lay their gifts down to worship Jesus, they look into the distance as if Jesus were in the room, playing quietly in a corner somewhere. They look at him affectionately and reverently.

The remaining scene is described in the body of the rhyming text above.

Christmas Tidings: Suggested Summary & Prayer

Narrator (or church leader)

Before we continue with our celebration service, we would like to thank everybody for taking time out of their private Christmas celebrations to join together as a church family on this joyous occasion.

For those of you who are guests, we are delighted that you could be with us and we hope you enjoyed the little play that reminds us that the greatest gift we have been given, is Jesus Christ.

In this play, we recognise that even though the wise men are often incorrectly depicted as being present at the manger, what really matters is that we give God the glory for the Christmas story.

One of the names of Jesus that we particularly focus on during this season, is that he is the “Prince of Peace”. That may seem strange to you, given that there are so many distressing situations taking place in the world right now. However, Jesus wants to give you peace and be the continual peace in your heart.

The best type of peace we can have is the assurance of knowing that when we die, we will be with him in Heaven forever. It is only our sin that keeps us away from receiving this blessing. But salvation – being saved from our sins – is a free gift from God to anyone who is willing to receive it.

Right now, you can have the opportunity to get your life right with God, by repeating this prayer in your heart:

Dear God, I humbly come before you now, to give my life to you.

I am sorry for the wrong things I have done in my life, which you call sin.

I acknowledge that I was born a sinner, which means that it’s in my nature to do things that displease you. I know that this includes the deepest thoughts and attitudes of my heart and the real motives behind everything I do.

Please forgive me for those sins and especially for the sin of keeping you out of my life.

Even though you love me, I know that because you are a God of justice and holiness, if I die without having my sins forgiven, I will spend eternity without you, in a terrible place called Hell.

I acknowledge that I need you and I want you in my life.

I believe that Jesus Christ is your son and that he died on the cross to pay the penalty for my sins. I believe he rose again and is the living power that can take the Devil’s hold off my life. Please come into my life now and touch my heart with your forgiveness and love. I want to have a relationship with and get to know you more. My very being was created for this purpose and without you, my hunger for peace and happiness will never be satisfied.

I give you my life now. Please lead me to people who will help me become a good strong Christian and who will show me how to relate to the things of God. Help me to find a Bible that suits my understanding and a church that I can call home.

Thank you, Lord. I believe by faith now that you have answered my prayer. I believe that no matter how bad I may feel about myself in the future, you have forgiven me and saved me from my sins. Thank you. Amen.

Christmas Tidings

WISE MAN 1

Where are the shepherds with their crooks,

And elastic bands around their head?

Where are the cattle and the sheep,

That lay near the baby’s head?

***

Where are the bundles of messy hay,

And the crib that’s made of wood?

Where’s the smelly barn,

In which everybody stood?

WISE MAN 2

This is not a Christmas panto’,

There’s no manger and no cot!

Were they short of actors,

Or did they sack the lot?

(Wise Man 3 whispers into the ear of the other two.)

Ah! Twenty four months have passed

And Jesus is now two.

He’s weaned and potty-trained,

And talking a bit now, too.

WISE MAN 1

Are we being a little cocky?

Pedantic with the rules?

Do you think the audience

Will take us for three fools?

WISE MAN 2

Are we ruining the Nativity?

Spoiling the yearly play?

We’re up here on our own!

What will the children say?

WISE MAN 3

(laughs)

Well, the Bible clearly states

That after Herod’s weird behaviour,

Two years or so had passed

Before we visited the Saviour.

***

What a jealous, hateful king!

Yes, according to the story,

He was determined to stop the baby

Growing up to get the glory.

***

So, let’s worship the Messiah,

Leave our gifts, then depart.

Then, let’s go back a different way

And make a brand new start.

WISE MAN 3

For, God has made it known,

Herod’s intentions are not pure.

Evil plans have filled his mind

Of that, we can be sure.

(they pause and take a deep breath as they look in the distance at the Christ child)

WISE MAN 1

We leave gold for a child

Who is our Lord and King.

And for this little Priest,

Frankincense I bring.

***

He may be teeny, tiny now,

But he is God, all the same.

And one day, he will die for us,

That is why he came.

WISE MAN 3

So, for his death, we bring a gift

That smells so strong and sweet.

It can be poured upon is head,

And flow down to his feet.

***

We leave this oil of myrrh

That can be stored away,

To anoint his precious body

On a sad and lonely day.

WISE MAN 1

Before we go…

I have a question for you two.

Something’s on my mind.

I’m confused about the way

The Nativity’s defined.

***

Why do we sing carols

That say it was snowing?

He wasn’t born in winter.

The hot sun was glowing.

***

The weather was not bleak,

They didn’t trudge through ice.

WISE MAN 2

Ssh! You’re spoiling the story!

WISE MAN 1

Well, I like to be precise.

WISE MAN 3

I suppose it is amusing,

Yes, it’s really quite enthralling.

It was late summer.

The leaves were not yet falling.

WISE MAN 1

(singing a mixture of two carols at once)

“See amidst the winter’s snow…”

“Frosty wind made moan…”

(laughs)

WISE MAN 2

(waving his hand dismissively)

Oh let the people sing!

Leave their lyrics alone!

***

We’ve left our gifts before the Lord,

And now, we need to scatter.

That crazy king is after his life –

His birth date doesn’t matter.

***

What matters is, to listen,

To our God, who is speaking.

So, we don’t allow that man

To fulfil what he is seeking.

WISE MAN 1

He said he wants to worship him,

But he’s trying to deceive.

The child’s life is in danger

So, we’ll bow once more, then leave.

WISE MAN 3

But first, let’s rejoice!

The celebration begins!

Jesus is the Christ child,

Who will save us from our sins!

(pause as they put their gifts down on the floor)

(They kneel in front of the gifts, then close their eyes. Wise Man 1 puts his hand on his heart, Wise Man 2 looks down to the ground in worship, and Wise Man 3 looks up to the heavens.)

(Wise Man 2 and Wise Man 3 rise and turn around, walking towards DOWN CENTRE. Wise Man 1 gets up slowly and turns around, but doesn’t move.)

WISE MAN 1

So, were there only three of us

Like the Nativity declares?

WISE MAN 3

Umm, I think there were many more,

But really… (All) who cares!

(They laugh to themselves and walk off the stage slowly.)

-The End-

Christmas Tidings: Preliminary Information: Cast, Props, Costumes, Duration

Topic: Celebrating the birth of Jesus

Main theme: The significance of the gifts that the 3 wise men gave to Jesus.

Approximate duration: 6 mins.

Cast

Cast: 3 characters

Wise man 1

Wise man 2

Wise man 3

Suggested Props & Costumes

3 robes – any colour.

3 sashes / long scarves for waist – long pieces of material to tie around the waist

3 turbans. Woolly hats that have a thick brim can be used, then wrap shiny material around them.

Gold. Use a rectangle box wrapped in shiny gold paper.

Frankincense and myrrh. Use a jar with a lid or a square tissue box wrapped in paper.

*The focus is on the message, not the props – they don’t have to be perfect.

Easter Reflections: Director’s Notes

Scene One

If it is possible to have the room darkened, please do so. The two narrators are the only people present in this scene. They can either read the script side by side from the stage or have a pre-recorded recital that is played over a public address system. The visual aspect of this scene is a screen that shows a picture of a whip.

Scene Two

Narrator One stands on the stage or at the front of the room. If possible, Narrator Two should read their part behind stage / obscured from view, so that people can focus on the words and images on screen.

Scene Three

Mary walks onto the stage area from behind the audience and stands in the CENTRE. She then turns around slowly, looking around like she is lost – moving her head in different directions. She is scared and sad.

As she recites the first section, she is re-living her past and cringing at the thought of how tormented she used to be. She places the palms of both hands against the sides of her head and looks down. She also crosses her arms and rubs her biceps like she is cold. When she does this, she flinches as if something is trying to attack her.

During the second section, her emotions change to delight and she looks up the ceiling often. She opens her arms out wide with palms upwards, as if receiving something. She is elated and laughs during the dialogue.

After she says, “I felt so warm inside.” Jesus enters the stage from DOWN RIGHT and stands at an angle with his back partly to the audience. A distance remains between them as she stands facing him. She doesn’t look at him until she begins to recite the third section.

As the third section begins, she looks directly at Jesus and leans forward in a pleading manner. Once again, her arms stretch to the side, with palms up.

When she says, “Sir please do not waste time, my grief has made me weary.” She puts her head in her hands and bends slightly forward. After she says, “Just tell me where…” there is a 5 second pause. Jesus opens his arms towards her but stays where he is.

As she says, “what did you say…” she looks up at Jesus.

As she says, “Sir, you just called me Mary!” this is recited slowly, but the emphasis is on the word, “Mary” which is pronounced louder than the other words.

Mary then rips off her black dress. It doesn’t matter if the audience sees her pull at the Velcro fastening and it doesn’t matter if this is done clumsily. She does need to make an emphasis of throwing the black cloak onto the ground behind her. She tosses it behind her then runs straight to Jesus and falls at his feet, looking up at him in reverence and joy.

Jesus looks down at her with a smile and hovers the palms of his hands over her head.

She remains at his feet, looking up at him throughout the last section, until she gets to, “Or plant some tiny seeds”

She gets up to recite the last 4 lines and faces the audience with both hands raised above her head, in praise.

Mary runs off the stage towards the audience and runs past them to the back, as if she is going to tell the others what she has just experienced.

Jesus watches here with a smile on his face, then takes a bunch of keys out of his pocket and begins to swirl them over his right index finger.

The narrator enters the stage as the lights dim.

Scene Four

The narrator uses a torch if he cannot see clearly the script he is reading.

Scene Five

Please refer to the page above, entitled, “He is Risen”, as the direction has been explained in this section.

*****

As this play is designed to be performed on Easter Sunday in church, there is no suggested summary or prayer, as after the play has been performed, the service will resume as directed by the church leaders present.

Easter Reflections: Scene Five. “He is Risen!”

Narrator

We are overwhelmed by the power of the resurrection. When Jesus rose from the dead, he conquered every attack that the enemy fashioned against us including, death, fear, sickness, and Hell itself. Often, we remain battling against illness, anxiety, loneliness, depression and other distressing ailments of life, but Jesus has given us the power to go through him to get to God – it is there in God’s presence we can obtain the peace we need and the strength to not give up the fight for what is rightfully ours – a life full of joy, peace and good health. But, as we all have to die one day, the most important gift that the resurrection brings us is eternal life. This means if we accept Jesus as our Saviour, we get to live with him forever, after this earthly life is over.

If you don’t know what a saviour is, or what eternal life means, and if you don’t know Jesus personally, please speak to a designated leader afterwards and they will be happy to tell you more about how you too can have this wonderful gift. It is free and there’s no catch. Nobody’s trying to entrap you or sign you up for anything. God just wants you to get to know him because he made you for this purpose.

Many of Jesus’ followers had struggled with sins and weaknesses. After an encounter with him, he helped them overcome these things. For some, it was before he died, and for others, it was when they encountered him after he had risen. Either way, when you meet Jesus, he changes your life forever.

He is Risen!

All 8 characters walk onto the stage in any order and stand in a horizontal line, facing the audience. They are wearing their name cards around their neck and with both hands, they hold their character card in front of them – with each arm by their sides, so that the card is resting by their thighs.

Peter is holding, “Fear”.

Thomas is holding, “Unbelief”.

Mary Magdalene is holding, “Rejection”.

Mary (mother of Jesus) is holding, “Bereavement”.

Zacchaeus is holding, “Greed”.

Nicodemus is holding, “Religion”.

Martha is holding, “Wrong priorities”.

Jairus’ daughter is holding, “Sickness”.

One by one, from the person standing to the right of the audience, they hold up their card above their head and say slowly, “Jesus is risen. He is risen indeed, hallelujah!”

After each person speaks, they bend down and place their card on the floor and step onto it. They remain stood on the card.

After the last person has spoken, they all swivel around and pick up their “Hope” card from the chair or table that is behind them.

They then all say in unison,

“Jesus is risen. He is risen indeed, hallelujah!”

The narrator may invite the audience to join in with this last declaration.

Easter Reflections: Scene Four. “He Took the Keys”

Narration

In the Bible it is alluded to that before Jesus ascended back to his Father in Heaven, that he took a trip to Hell. Our goal today is not to agree or disagree with others about the true meaning behind this verse or about what we think went on there, but to consider the power Jesus has over the devil, sin and death now that he has arisen from the dead. Satan would definitely have been rejoicing for a short period of time after he saw Jesus die on that cross.

Thankfully for those of us who believe in Jesus, we can rejoice in the fact that we have a mighty king who is all powerful and all loving. He holds the keys to life and Easter is a fantastic time of year to reflect back on the glorious things he has done for us all.

He Took the Keys

He went deep into the prison,

The core of Satan’s lair.

Standing in the stinking Hell,

With all the demons there.

Each demonic creature

Looked to their master for a cue,

But Satan stood there petrified,

Not knowing what to do.

Jesus was alive,

And they all could feel his power.

After three days of laughter,

The atmosphere, now sour.

Jesus passed away,

So how could he be here…

Standing tall in victory,

Filling them all with fear?

He said, “I have won the battle,

And I’ve come to crush your head.

You thought you’d got rid of me,

But I’m no longer dead.

I’ve risen to life for evermore,

There’s power in my breath.

I’ve conquered sin forever,

And suffering, pain and death.”

He then snatched the keys from Satan’s hand,

As he cowered on the ground.

This evil one defeated,

Dared not make a sound.

Seventy two hours of mocking,

With boasting and so much pride.

But now seeing the Holy Son of God,

Made him tremble and want to hide.

He had revelled at the volume

Of blood that Jesus shed,

But the power in that same blood,

Rose his body from the dead.

Jesus said, “The keys to sin and death,

Are now held in my hand.

You have no hold upon the world,

You no longer stand.

The blood that poured out of me,

Now has power to set souls free.

The cross I was nailed to,

Now a symbol of victory.

The lonely can now smile,

Their heartache’s at an end.

For now they have a Saviour,

A dependable best friend.

A secret place to go,

To receive joy and peace,

Comfort in the hard times,

Love that will never cease.

The hopeless who close their eyes,

Wishing the day to be their last,

Will find strength to face tomorrow,

And forgiveness from the past.

The sad will have much joy,

And there’s courage for the fearful.

All the wounded in spirit,

Will be no longer tearful.

But tears of joy will flow

From sinners who look to me,

Believing I’m the Son of God

Who died to set them free.

As the ground shook beneath them,

Jesus left with the keys.

It went darker than the darkest night,

As they all fell to their knees.

Their master was defeated,

Jesus was the King.

And while the demons wailed in agony,

You could hear the angels sing.

Easter Reflections: Scene Three. “You’re Alive!”

Narrator

It’s hard enough to watch a loved-one be murdered and then pass away from life to death, but when that loved-one is someone who has turned your life around, it is gut-wrenching. 

Mary Magdalene was one of the many people whose life was in pieces before she had an encounter with Jesus. Jesus healed her emotionally, saved her from sin and delivered her from the oppression of demonic forces which were controlling her life.

She was utterly heartbroken at the thought of losing Jesus. She couldn’t bear never seeing him again and she could not get the images of his cruel torture out of her mind.

The only thing to do was to go to the place where his broken body had been laid to rest.

She cried. Oh, how she cried and she cried and she cried.

Her sadness was unbearable.

You’re Alive!

I was trapped with a mind

That was tormented day and night.

When I looked in the mirror,

It gave me quite a fright.

My eyes were so lifeless,

Like those lying in the grave.

My mouth spoke obscenities.

I just could not behave.

It seemed something was forcing me

To say and do bad things.

I felt out of control.

My behaviour made me cringe.

*****

Then a man came into my life,

And I was instantly set free!

He addressed my demons,

And told them all to flee.

He became my best friend,

My father and my guide.

Whenever I was with him,

I felt so warm inside.

We sat up all night talking;

He was the brother I adored.

He was my perfect Saviour,

I was glad to call him Lord.

*****

So, where have you put him?

He meant so much to me.

Tell me where you’ve laid him,

So I can go and see.

It was bad enough watching,

His flesh get ripped apart,

If I could just anoint his body,

That would begin to heal my heart.

Sir, please do not waste time,

My grief has made me weary,

Just tell me where…what did you say?

Sir you just called me Mary!

*****

Oh, Jesus it is you!

I had just presumed,

You were the local gardener,

Here to clean around the tomb.

*****

Jesus it is you!

Not here to prune a flower,

But risen to tell the world,

You’re alive and full of power.

*****

Jesus it is you!

Not here to trim the weeds,

Or cut away the grass,

Or plant some tiny seeds.

But to plant within the heart of man,

Hope and joy and praise.

For you truly broke the curse of sin,

By rising in three days!