Today, She Who Must Be Obeyed (aka my beautiful wife) and I celebrated 21 years of marriage. We did so at Lombardis Cafe with a magnificent breakfast that, like our marriage, I initially found daunting, occasionally challenging but ultimately proved to be a wonderfully warm, satisfying & enriching experience. I love my wife.
We live in an age where our tweets about grocery shopping, ill-considered blog posts and half-hearted ‘likes’ of mildly amusing Facebook posts threaten to trivialise and reduce our lives like nothing before. Yet, amongst all the noise we create with our self-importance and desire to be liked, we still hear snatches of a clearer signal that enhances our human connections rather than dilute them.
In a comment on my previous post, Casey kindly expresses a concern as to whether I may be bottling up my feelings concerning Friday’s accident. While I always appreciate folk taking the time to comment on my posts, I feel blessed that Casey cares enough not just to follow through with a comment but also to challenge me on whether I am really ‘over’ what happened or just blowing smoke in my post to disguise a need to vent.
I am pleased to report that I am not bottling anything up and I genuinely have nothing I need to work through or get out of my system. While I have reacted badly to similar situations in the past, on Friday I took a different approach to dealing with the incident. I found it liberating and offered me a timely opportunity for reflection.
While there is no denying a certain amount of inconvenience as a result of the accident, what did I actually lose? Other than three or so hours out of my working week and possibly losing my ‘no claims’ bonus, I am essentially no worse off than before the incident. On the other hand, I find I have gained in a number of ways.
I spent time with a delightful Indian lady and her daughter who were also involved in the accident, comparing our respective philosophies and theologies while the police carried out their enquiries. I met a couple of great tow truck drivers who had a fine line in graveyard humour, a genuine concern for all involved and did me a great service in calling ahead to arrange a courtesy car.
However, the biggest gift of all was that I was given an opportunity to put my faith – all that read, pray on and believe in – into practice when speaking to the disqualified and uninsured driver who drove into the back of my car. In the simple words of George Fox, I was given the choice to ‘let my life speak’ through the way I chose to react to him and the unexpected turn of events he set in motion.
Where I might previously have puffed out my chest, shouted and remonstrated, I was given a chance to turn the other cheek; where I might have nurtured a grudge and apportion blame, it was in my gift to banish ill-will; where I could have demanded summary justice, I resolved to think about mercy; and where I could have argued the facts and challenged untruths, I was minded to hold my tongue and extend grace instead.
In a week where the aftermath of tsunami, earthquakes and civil unrest continues to cleave family life, decimate communities and bereave thousands across the Southern hemisphere, I am truly thankful that my gravest concern is how I might pay for the car repairs.
My flawed and fissured life is a work in progress; a series of moments, milestones and mishaps through which I try to navigate with a pinch of wisdom, a modicum of integrity, an ounce of good humour – and my faith, which exhorts me to seek that of God in every man, no matter the circumstance. On Friday, I simply tried to do just that.
To the disqualified driver of the uninsured, street modified Honda who drove into the back of my car after tailgating me on yesterday morning’s commute into town.
In closing, please think about telling a better story with your life, taking responsibility for your actions and their consequences, and enriching the lives of others as well as yourself.
Thanks
I’m sitting at my desk replaying in my mind the beautiful morning and lunch I spent with the lovely folk of Westgate Baptist at Chosen Valley. Wonderful worship, fantastic fellowship and so many connections discovered through the sharing.
Thanks to Raewyn and Greg for asking me to be a part of your camp and blessing me with an opportunity to share. Here’s part of what I shared:
I have learned that I can pray almost anywhere. That is, anywhere other than in my house where, even if I do go away by myself and shut the door behind me like Jesus did, I am always reminded that I am just one man in a house of five wonderfully vocal women.
I can pray as I wake – to give my thanks for waking to a new day, my desire to serve and my hope to catch a glimpse of Jesus during the day. I can pray in the car for the ever-changing dawn sunrise I see each day as I commute across the causeway on the NorthWestern. I can pray at my desk – for wisdom in leading my team, for honesty in my work, integrity in my decisions and for the blessing of serving the city and country I have chosen to make my own.
In his book ‘Christian Discourses’, Soren Kierkegaard wrote this:
“A man prayed, and at first he thought that prayer was talking. But he became more and more quiet until in the end he realised that prayer is listening.”
As I get older, I often find that when I run out of words and my mind stills itself, it is then that I experience God. When I do it reminds me that I can trust Him in everything and with everything.
A year ago, one of my daughters became extremely ill and was rushed to Waitakere Hospital where she was found to have bacterial meningitis. While waiting for the ambulance, literally hoarse with pain, she suddenly slumped against my shoulder and pleaded ‘Pray for me, Daddy’. I don’t believe I have ever prayed harder.
In the hours that followed, my words began to run into each other; they became meaningless and then they simply ran out. And it was then, by her hospital bed, that I fully experienced God in that incredible choice to trust in Him in my own valley of shadows; the faith, fellowship and prayers of friends and community; the blessing of His grace, mercy and deliverance – and in the glory of God, closing an amazing circle of faith, by answering the prayers of a father for the daughter who had taught him to pray again.
And so, if there is any message at all in this story, I think it is for those of us who ever doubt – the reluctant spouse attending camp to find out what their partner sees in church; the lifelong believer rocked by private grief or national disaster; the mother or father who struggle with the ghosts of their own childhood.
Take that leap – again or for the very first time – and trust in God with a wholehearted trust that is evident to believers and doubters alike.
I will leave you with an example of wholeheartedly trust in the Lord, in the form of a brief story from my Sunday school days.
A Quaker family living on the American frontier heard a rumour that a Native American war party was planning to attack their small settlement, The other homesteaders barricaded themselves in their houses, loaded their guns, and prepared to do battle.
As pacifists, the Quaker family refused to use arms but decided to protect themselves by pulling in the latchstring on their door When the latchstring was drawn, there was no way for someone from the outside to get in.
When night fell the family went to bed, but found they could not sleep; they were restless, and troubled by doubts. They were worried that by pulling in the latchstring, they were putting their faith in a locked door rather than in God’s loving care.
Finally they got up, put the latchstring back out the way it usually was, went back to bed, and slept through the rest of the night.
Just before dawn, a war party attacked the settlement. Houses were burned and people were killed, but the homestead with the drawn latchstring was left untouched.
A few years later, in a peace circle, the father described his experience and was shocked to get an explanation from an Indian who participated in that night’s raid. He said the chief announced, “These people believe in the Divine Spirit. They shall not harm us. We shall not harm them.”
After an afternoon at the beach, we wanted a quick and easy supper. While the rest of the family opted for chicken fajitas from a packet mix, I converted a great recipe for Blackened Redfish, from my twenty year old copy of Cajun Cooking by Marjie Lambert, to come up with ‘Escalope à la Diable’. It turned out great and my mouth is still zinging from the flavours and the heat. Here’s how easy it is.
After beating chicken breasts into escalopes, coat them with the following mix of herbs and spices, freshly ground to a medium consistency in a mortar and pestle.
2 tbsp paprika
1 1/2 tsp sea salt to taste
2 tsp onion granules
2 tsp garlic granules
2 tsp ground cayenne pepper
1 1/2 tsp ground pepper
2 tsp dried oregano leaves
2 tsp dried thyme leaves
Pre-heat your barbecue plate or cast iron pan to the highest temperature. You’ll need a raging hot barbecue plate or cast iron pan to cook this dish and, if you cook it indoors, make sure the kitchen is very well ventilated. The first time I cooked this in our tiny apartment kitchen in London, the smoke hit me like riot gas and left me with streaming eyes and nose! Once fiercely hot, cook the escalope on one side until the coating is blackened and the flesh whitened, probably no more than 2 minutes. Gently turn over and repeat for the other side. Serve plain with steamed fresh vegetables, flavoured rice or a mixed salad – or serve as a burger with your favourite toppings.
Christians protecting Muslims while they pray during protests in Egypt © NevineZaki
I am pretty sure that this is what ‘love your neighbour as yourself‘ looks like. May it be a metaphor for the future of Egypt and an example to the wider world in the weeks and months to come.
via Jesus Needs New PR and Reddit.
“The leaves of our blessed lives fall to the ground and if we’re wise … we gather them in a pile and keep them safe lest the winds of forgetfulness blow them away.”
— Philip Gulley
Jack’s one of a kind, many times over. Ever since our days together at East 15 Acting School, I have known some of these Jacks. Each is a leaf in my blessed life which I now gather in a pile lest my winds of forgetfulness blow them away.
Jack the caring curmudgeon;
Jack the exasperated deflator of theatrical pomposity;
Jack the seeker of honesty;
Jack the Dad who loved and tried;
Jack the earnest conversationalist;
Jack the skilled stretcher of a dole cheque;
Jack the lifelong musician;
Jack the succinct sage;
Jack the ‘Technique’ Alpha to the ‘Method’ Omega;
Jack the mate to troubled teens;
Jack the punk;
Jack the best Bad Fairy ever;
Jack the burner of sofas;
Jack the closet cowboy and Western lover;
Jack the sharer of large bar tabs;
Jack the perpetual wearer of Doc Martens;
Jack the loving son in the RAF club;
Jack the encyclopedia of popular music;
Jack the groom whom I best-manned;
Jack the innocent who asked me how the internet worked;
Jack my friend who died and left a hole in many lives.
More by heart and guesswork than reason, I sense Jack carried more than most could manage or fully understand – melancholia echoing from a different time, frustrations with why the world didn’t work his way and some deep dislocation that he could never seem to express.
In a world that leaks and dribbles grace into the cracks of our indifference, Jack had a bruised and persistent grace that touched those who chose to look below the surface. Jack’s grace was in his reflection and kindness, his music and his passion, his mad-cappery and his jester’s japes and the brutal honesty of the friendship we shared.
I trust that as ‘The Old Rugged Cross’ plays for Jack next week, God takes Jack at his word and extends His unceasing grace to my gracious friend.
Maisie and I have been busy this morning making a couple of common or garden white loaves of bread, following a recipe from The Complete Cook, one of two very well-used Hamlyn cook books on our kitchen bookshelf.
It is a fine family cook book and encyclopedia that contains information on ingredients, tools & equipment, basic techniques as well as over 1,000 recipes across a range of many cuisines – including what one reviewers claims to be the best chocolate mousse ever.
The other is the Hamlyn All Colour Cook Book, a birthday present from my Dad that even has his birthday card stuck inside. Dating from the mid-1970s, when my foodie tendencies started to surface, it has some great highly styled photos of trendy dishes straight from the world of Abigail’s Party.
This American Life is rarely less than great and this old episode from 2003, featuring the marvelous words of Michael Bernard Loggins, is no exception.