Re-entry

We’ve just moved back into our house. It’s wonderful. But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t spent some time this week rocking and moaning tunelessly to myself among the towers of boxes and jumbles of bags. I realise I hadn’t really given the physical reality of homecoming a single thought. At some level I think I had simply expected to walk in, put the kettle on and rearrange some furniture. If only.

I have instead been struck by inertia. Held down and held back by the sorrow and fatigue of 8 months lived in borrowed spaces. I grieve for what has happened, even though I am immensely grateful for the experience and I know that it has equipped our family in ways we will unpack for years to come. That kind of unpacking I can handle. The physical kind is making me want to weep.

But that’s just today.

Most of our boxes contain useless old rubbish we no longer need but have carted around with us for years because of some misplaced sense of obligation to the people or the era they came from. Pointless sentimentality has literally landed us with unwanted baggage. And when I get my second wind I’m ordering a skip so I can throw it all away.

My feelings may slow my progress but they are not in charge.

I thank God for the realities of my life, whether they feel good or not, because of what they teach me about Him. That He’s been with us every day of this strange nomadic year, and He’s come home with us too. I know with even greater certainty that his love is an unchanging fact of His nature, not mine. It’s neither a product of my wishful thinking nor a reward for my good behaviour. God is love. He loves me no matter what.

And He loves you no matter what.

Right. Back to the boxes.

 

Foghorn

It would have been early, 5 am or thereabouts, when our sleep was interrupted by a long, loud blast on a ship’s horn. My other half was not impressed, saying it was a bit antisocial. It blasted again a few times more and then stopped. Later when we got up we couldn’t see the water or the bank opposite. It looked as though a cloud had parked in front of us. The blast was probably a cruise liner or cargo ship moving out along a stretch of river also used by small boats and rowers. So the foghorn may have woken the folks along the shore, but those on the water needed it.

One of the more ridiculous lies I have wrapped my scaredy-cat self in over the years goes like this: offence is worse than warning. So the best thing to do is to say nothing and hope that by being a really super-nice person others might be intrigued enough to give me opportunities to share the hope I have in Jesus. If I was really serious about that I should have got myself one of those badges pyramid sellers used to wear. ‘I’m a Christian. Ask me how.’

But I didn’t. Because for one thing, I was not nice enough consistently enough to arouse much curiosity. Truth. For another, I didn’t really have much to tell people in response to any question they might ask me. Thinking about talking to anyone about my faith made my palms sweaty. Still does at times. But I saw a cartoon that gave me pause. It showed the devil leading a man off to hell and an angel leading another off to heaven. The condemned man is looking at the other with disbelief. The caption reads: Bob! You never told me you were a Christian!

If you’re in the dark and you’re in danger you need someone to warn you. If you choose not to believe them that’s your choice. If I see the danger but am too shy/scared to tell you, that makes me not at all nice. That makes me something else entirely. As Penn Jillette, not shy about his atheism, puts it so well here.

Don’t say this in church

A few weeks ago I stood up in church at the end of the service and proposed that the women take a few hours out for a break at a local spa. I didn’t notice I had used the word ‘pamper’ until I was questioned nervously about it afterwards.

I made a mental note not to say pamper in church again. It freaks people out.

Perhaps it’s because we women, daughters of that naughty Eve, well, we’re not meant to be pampered, we’re meant to work. To serve others continuously. To give and not to get. It is, after all, more blessed to give than to receive. We know how well we’re doing by how much we’re doing.

Anyway, pampering is worldly, right? Advertising assures us ‘we’re worth it’, and wallpapers our magazines and screens with luxury holidays and homes and lives.

The church should be steering clear of all that, surely. A good church woman cares, provides, supports, helps, prays, teaches, visits, organises and bakes, with endless patience, good humour, creativity and calm. Definitely no pampering.

Then again, maybe not.

Maybe when Jesus told his disciples to come aside and rest awhile, as he did in Mark 6 v 31 he meant it.

The disciples had been busy. The crowds were continuous. The demands were many. The disciples were, as we are, finite and human. Exhausted. Jesus told them to rest. And he tells us to rest too.

When I stood up at the end of the service I saw some very tired women and men. But the discomfort over the idea of pampering made me wonder how much we think God loves us. Call me crazy, but I believe He loves us enough to let us have some time to relax once in a while. He even mandated it, in fact. Rest was part of God’s design. In fact, as Joyce Meyer pointed out recently, Adam’s first day on earth after he was created was a day of rest.

In rest we drop our cares for a while, we relax, we enjoy the blessing of leisure. We take a break from the routine, we remember who we are and what it is to simply be, without the weight of responsibility. It keeps our minds healthy. It keeps us humble, not puffed up with the conceit that we can keep going without a break. It connects us back to the joy of simply being alive. It refreshes us, reinvigorates us. Makes us feel good.

So I’m off to the spa.

Hallelujah.