Flotsam?

 Looking through my wash bag to review what needs replacing for when we go away, I'm surprised at the little bits of stuff I've gathered;  two lip balms half-used, ditto shaving cream, ditto shower gel .Three different sorts of tooth floss.   This washbag must be the personal hygiene equivalent of that black hole somewhere in the universe where odd socks go to die. 

A mid year resolution; to gather all these bits together and start to use them. Otherwise I can see that they will moulder on and probably still be there in ten years' time, probably completely unusable. 

It came as a gentle epiphany that there are mouldering corners of my life and its giftings which could be put to use in the service of God. We are usually aware of our more obvious gifts, the ones in daily use. And maybe we play to our strengths, and forget about the others which lie hidden, not called on regularly. What might these be? Is it time to bring them to the light, decide on their use, in the expectation of a more rounded service to Christ? 

Could flotsam become treen?- the found stuff on the seashore which becomes useful once more?

 

The power of word and gesture

 If any one doubted the power of word and gesture, that should have been dispelled this week by the actions of a certain footballer whose removal of two bottles of cola at a news conference, wiped -was it $4billion?- from the share value of  the manufacturer.

It's likely to be a temporary blip, but nevertheless, I doubt that Ronaldo would realise the financial impact of his gesture, and his one-word endorsement of water as an alternative. 

It's unsettling to realise what impact a word, a gesture might have; the wounds we carry from something said or done years ago, the affirmation we still feel from that hug, that look, those few words when we needed them. 

So I have little difficulty in accepting that the word Jesus spoke to the storm on the Sea of Galilee (from today's gospel in Mark chapter 4) had power. Spoken by the one characterised as 'The Word' , with all the authority of God behind him, behind the calming words he spoke. Rinaldo has cast new light on this for me. 

Let's imagine the words to the storm were 'Be still'. Behind them comes the unbidden phrase '......and know that I am God'. All words and gestures from Jesus lead to that- the power of knowing in the silence and stillness, the One Who Is.    

Keeping up

The first small flowers on the 'Rambling Rector' rose are through. nine yesterday, eighteen today. Tomorrow still countable, but within a week it will be impossible to number them. The fence will be covered with a profusion of creamy-apricot flowers. And the scent, especially in the evenings, with be heaven itself. 

The downside is that it will not last. This is not a 'repeat flower' rose; one show is all. But for the two or three weeks of its flowering, it is glorious. For its flowers, its perfume, and for what it adds to the ensemble of the garden at this time of year. 

But for now, it is the headlong rush into the impossibility of keeping up with it, counting the flowers as they open, which engages me. The profusion, the unstinting giving of the plant amazes me. There would be more flowers still, but I have pruned it back, afraid its weight would cause it to fall, damage itself, damage the fence. 

The impossibility of keeping up with it- for this week I shall shall be reminded of the work of the Spirit; I am forever behind, trailing in the slipstream, asking how I can deal with this much grace. And unlike this rose, the work of the Spirit keeps flowering, world without end . 

       

Graceless

 I gave blood on Thursday. Let the reader understand that I only do this for the chocolate biscuit after the donation is over, and for the strict injunction before I leave that no housework should be done, no, not even light dusting, for the next six months.......dream on. 

The donor-carer assigned to me was a disappointment. Efficient, yes, but no 'please', no 'thank you; in her her instructions. Just, 'do this', 'do that'. It jarred. 

Please and thank-you are such simple words. We teach them as one of the first things a child should learn. We call it 'manners'- the manner in which things should be said. They are a mark of a civilised and courteous human. But they can also be viewed as a sign of grace by the hearer. 

I've given blood many times, and sensitive donor-carers are attuned to the small details which settle the person in front of them into a good experience; the small talk, the 'please' the 'thank you', the gentleness with which an arm is handled. It casts an air of grace over the proceedings.

'Little things done with great love' as Mother Teresa said.   

Old Photos

 Yes, the photographs are in colour, but they are forty, fifty years old, and have faded to sludgy browns and greens. They have lost their sharpness and vitality, the vibrancy of their true colours. 'My pullover was a brighter blue, as I remember it- surely it wasn't that shade!'

Memory can be like that, leeching out the details, sometimes the whole picture. An incident one of us remembers, but the other has totally forgotten. Or only vaguely recollects.

Whatever, these old photos are a reminder of the gulf between then and now, Things were different then. All we have is the present to embrace in all its fullness, whilst admitting that the past has shaped us, and our present experience will shape our future. Thus the importance of 'Now is the day of salvation'. The present moment, while the kingdom is near at hand, and God 'a very present help'.

'Carpe diem!' -seize the day! the Roman poet Horace probably meant it to signify enjoying life while one can, but it can be a salvific motto. It probably wasn't religious language, but it's a religious thought.     

Waiting

 How much of our lives is spent waiting in queues of one sort of another; the bus stop, the supermarket checkout, the ATM. Or just waiting; on the platform for the train, the time between ordering them meal and its arrival. 

The worst is surely the airport, with its different waits to check in, get through security, to board, and that dead time when the doors are closed, and nothing seems to happen for ages, before the aircraft trundles off, again to wait in a queue for take-off. 

But today our waiting-ten days since the Ascension- is rewarded; waiting, just as Jesus told his disciples not to leave the city until the father's gift of the Spirit was given. Waiting can sometimes be a disappointment, but this gift of God's Spirit completely overtook the disciples, bowled them out into the streets full of pilgrims for the harvest celebration of Pentecost, to tell of the love of God for all. 

Anglican sensibilities will expect something less dramatic this morning, but the prayer 'Come, Holy Spirit' will be made, that God will energise again his faithful people, into the action that is always needed in one form or another after waiting. 

Opening up

 'And now in age I bud again.... on whom thy tempests fell all night', I couldn't quite place it- I was sure it was George Herbert, but knowing that he died at only thirty nine, the phrase 'in age' seemed inappropriate for one so relatively young, by today's standards. Recourse to his Complete Works, though, located the verse in 'The Flower'- my half-hunch was right.. 

Budding again feels about where we are with the country opening up. The personal possibilities seem wider, although still limited. But after fifteen months, the buds of opportunity are welcome; first fruits were seen on Monday- lunch with friends, outside. (No inside lunches till June). 

Buds are things of promise, a down payment on what is to come. As we have moved from Easter to Ascensiontide last week, and anticipate Pentecost, the buds of resurrection life have seemed to pause for ten days, before the flowering next weekend. And then comes the long Trinity season- a time to see that flowering in all its glory, as we recapitulate the Jesus story with the insights and dynamism of Pentecost added to the fizz of Easter. 'I once more smell the dew and rain....O my onely light, it cannot be that I am he on whom thy tempests fell all night.' 

Well, I'm not quite at that stage of disbelief about the past tempests. But I sense the buds, and with the guidance of 'my onely light' relish the thought of the coming flowers.