The video below gives you more details of what the entire book is about.

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 –

– those of us who are well aware that despite all the good we do, inherently, we are scumbags.

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.

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.

People change and those who appear to not look like they will ever reform, have the potential to change just as much.

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.

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!”

You may identify with this.

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?

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.

Her mother wanted her to learn that bad attitudes are not to be rewarded with fun.

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.

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.

In reality, our kids are more likely to hate us if we give in to their every whim.

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 34^th 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.

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

I realised I needed a whole load more of God’s patience and grace if I was to avoid becoming an inmate.

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)

“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 3^rd 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.

He cried with me, laughed with me, and understood each frustration.

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 our 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.

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.

Yes, some of us dropped our batons years ago and we are still staring down at them while others dance around us.

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)

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,

but he also cherishes those ‘no reason at all moments’ when we just crave to be in his presence.

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.

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,

cherishing me when others thought ill of me.

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)

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?

What is 5 minutes of your life when your child wants to have a quick bit of fun with you?

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.

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.

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).

So many relationships break down because what is being communicated by one, is received as something else by the other.

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.

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.

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.

You had compassion on him, yet you are doubting mine?

 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 really need your help.’

“Come to me with that same sentence and see how much I want to have mercy on you.”

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.

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 an 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!

Sometimes, we need to get wet in order to grow like plants, but at other times, like when the rivers burst their banks, he wants us to run to him, so that the waters do not drown us.

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.

I gritted my teeth as my twelve year old daughter grinned at me exuberantly. I had lost another game of Connect 4.

Somehow, oblivious to the positions of her red counters, I had allowed Sarah to yet again place one in a slot that meant she had a diagonal line of four in a row. Looking at the plastic board, I could see my pathetic array of yellow counters blocked by hers as soon as there was just two of mine lying together. Even when it was ‘my serve’ (the one who starts first should have an advantage), I found that instead of being on the attack, I was just constantly in defence, trying to block where she was planning to go. The score was now 18-1 and there was no indication from her that she wanted a rest.

“Let’s play again!” she proposed, as the 44 counters crashed downwards into the tray.

“Er…I’m tired.” I replied, trying not to show my annoyance as my pride and competitive streak were being attacked on every side.

She insisted she wanted another game and went on to beat me another four rounds.

Over the following weeks, Sarah followed me around the house with the board in her hands. I’d be in the kitchen washing a pile of dishes.

“Game?” A blue board was shoved in my face as I tried to rinse a plate.

“Game?” I was on the desktop computer trying to send an email and all I could see was her hands holding…that blue board.

Importunate as ever, she followed me to the bathroom.

“Look! You’ve already beaten me 56 times, aren’t you satisfied that you’re better than me? Haven’t I told you enough times that you are the Connect 4 Champion? You’re fantastic, okay? Now, please leave me to go to the toilet in peace.”

As I dried my hands on the towel, I could hear plastic clanky noises from outside the door.

A week later, things changed. We played another few rounds, but Sarah was not so eager to continue. Her smile had turned to narrow-eyed vexation. Ten games in, she decided that was quite as enough for one week.

So, what prompted this abrupt change of heart?

I had finally gotten used to her strategy and the clever moves that used to bring her victory, didn’t work for her anymore.

I tried not to look smug as I read out the score: “So, that’s, 8-2… to me!”

Wow, it makes so much difference when we are aware of what our opponent is up to!

Jesus has given us a game-plan to beat the devil. This enemy of our souls never tires trying to beat us daily and drag us down. One of his biggest schemes is to get us over-focusing on ourselves and our circumstances until we have no hope.

Having no hope leads to discouragement and discouragement unchecked, leads to depression, which is closely linked to hopelessness.  Then he’s won.

We don’t have to let him have the victory. Jesus has already given us a way out:

…get to know your enemy’s tactics so you can not only block his every move, but also be on the attack yourself.

 Be sober, well balanced and self-disciplined, be alert and cautious at all times. That enemy of yours, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion – fiercely hungry, seeking someone to devour. (1Peter 5:8)

So, submit to the authority of God. Resist the devil; stand firm against him and he will flee from you. (James 4:7)

In the meantime, beware of any child that approaches you, asking if you’d like to play a few rounds of their favourite game. Your ego may be in for a thrashing!

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,

any worries or fears are shared with him and left there at his feet, so we don’t have to carry them around.

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.

(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.

But it is comforting to know that God’s words never change.

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.

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,

I had refused to be the friend she needed me to be.

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

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.

God can use anybody to do anything.

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 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.