Anita Mathias: Dreaming Beneath the Spires

Anita Mathias's Blog on Faith and Art

“Hudson Taylor’s Spiritual Secret” : A Guest Post by Dan Schmidt

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Interspersed with my own blog posts, I will be running a new series on the ONE Christian book which has most influenced you. If you’d like to guest-post, email me at anitamathias1ATgmail.com. Thanks.

Dan Schmidt opens the series, with a book whose central chapter I have read and posted on several times, and tried to “get.” “Getting it” even a little bit, as I have, is life-changing!

A friend left a message on my cell phone to call, asking me to call, which I did. We talked via Skype: me in Florida, my friend in China. Such an occurrence hardly raises a pierced eyebrow these days—who can’t connect with someone half a world away in less time than it takes to brew a latté? And China—even that hardly registers. What once was on the earth’s far side is now less than a day away by air-conditioned , wi-fi enabled jet.

As my friend and I were talking, I was thinking of another person who had moved to China for work, but whose experience was quite different. In 1854, James Hudson Taylor left medical school and booked passage on a steamer that would take him from England to Shanghai. That journey required more than five months.
I think of Hudson Taylor often. His son’s account (Hudson Taylor’s Spiritual Secret) is one of the engrossing ‘missionary stories’ that started finding their way to my shelves during high school and college. Then, when I finished grad school and joined a church planting team, I scoured its pages for tips, but got more than I bargained for. My tradition—devout, sincere, and zealous about evangelism—had not prepared me for the sort of encounter with Spirit that Hudson Taylor had. Once he stumbled upon the ‘exchanged life’, Taylor had a new outlook on all he encountered. Reading about this was stirring as I faced challenges in the work to which God had called me. I wanted to find the peace and confidence Taylor recommended.


Taylor notes that striving towards and anxiety about ‘the Christian life’ is common, but leaves us worn out and dissatisfied. He talks instead of resting in the Lord, “to let my loving Saviour work in me His will…. Abiding, not striving nor struggling; looking off unto Him; trusting Him for present power…”. The little saying that we toss off sometimes–“Let go, and let God”–would be a good summary of what Taylor saw as a release from trying so hard and an acceptance of what God wants to do in a heart captivated by Him. Taylor quotes Paul, in saying it is no longer I, but Christ who lives in me (Gal 2:20). It’s a handy phrase, but one that also drops a person into deep water…

Hudson Taylor was a pioneer several times over. Not only did he leave China’s coast (where most of his contemporaries were active) for that vast land’s interior, but he also started a new mission agency so as to put into play what he was learning. Previously, mission agencies—still in their infancy—consisted of the ‘home office’ that raised money, approved candidates, and supervised those on fields far away. Taylor’s China Inland Mission, established in 1866, was “content with little in the way of organization.” One of the every first ‘faith missions’, CIM did not actively solicit funds or workers. Taylor would sound the call, gather people for prayer, pray himself, and leave results to God. Alarmed by this novel effort, one observer warned, “You will be forgotten.”
Another of Taylor’s innovations was to adopt local customs. At the time, this was roundly criticized, and it cut Taylor off from much of the established ministry community. But some noticed that this young Brit had become extraordinarily effective in reaching Chinese people, and soon others were following his example. Taylor’s idea has since been taken up by people like Lesslie Newbingin, Shane Claiborne, and practitioners of ‘missional’ Christianity, who recognize effective kingdom ministry calls for the study of and even being shaped by one’s culture.
But to focus on methods would be to miss the man’s particular madness, for Hudson Taylor discovered that for all his industry and willingness to embrace change, he was lacking a heart full of God. This nearly drove him to distraction, but once he stumbled upon a simple, elegant ‘secret’, he could hardly speak of anything else. Fixated as he was on “not striving after faith, but resting on the faithful One,” Taylor would talk and write to those around him about giving all over to God in absolute trust. He found his credo in the hymn Jesus I am resting, resting …, which he would sing while walking the streets or pacing rooms where he stayed.
Taylor faced difficulties: he buried young children, lived on the thin edge of poverty, attracted public ridicule, weathered storms, bandits, and political upheavals. He also never tired from pushing forward, into China’s interior and around Europe and the US, urging people to care for the millions who lived outside the news of God’s love. His work was supported by George Mueller, Andrew Bonar, Charles Spurgeon, D. L. Moody, and many others, less well-known, but drawn along by the passion they witnessed.
Hudson Taylor counted on women to open fields for missionary service, and gave away most of his personal funds. He urged people to spend their lives on China, and made no promises for their care other than to point them to a loving Father who would never forget them. After a convalescence in Switzerland necessitated by chronic poor health, he returned to China when he was 73; Taylor died there days before he was scheduled to preach in Hunan province. The mission to which he gave his life resulted in an agency—now known as Overseas Mission Fellowship—that is nearly 150 years old.
The former physician’s assistant who insisted that “God’s work, done in God’s way, will never lack God’s supplies,” also said that “I never made a sacrifice”—and by recording both lines for us, this book officially qualifies as dangerous. I read it when I want or need to be reminded that when “God calls a person, He bids him come and die”—to quote Jim Elliot, another missionary who was similarly intense, extreme, committed, and effective. I also find in Hudson Taylor’s Spiritual Secret that apart from the thrilling adventure of opening a ‘foreign’ country to the Gospel, Taylor’s story revolves around the deep yearning for a life full of Spirit—and that’s where I want to go. 


Dan Schmidt

Dan Schmidt has pastored churches, eaten wot on injera in Ethiopia, and fished for sharks. He was raised among expatriates, and has lived in Latin American and central Pennsylvania with his family. Dan is the author of three books of devotional exegesis and two novels; he blogs at www.toucanic.net.

Incredible, Edible Todmorden: The Yorkshire Town in which you can pick your five a day on your walks (A Guest Post by Joanna Dobson)

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Incredible Edible Todmorden

The first time I arrived in the west Yorkshire town of Todmorden, I saw something rather remarkable on the station platform. Planters full of herbs. And, sticking out of the compost, a little sign saying ‘help yourself’.


The idea is that commuters on their way home from work can pick just what they need to finish off a delicious meal. The sign also suggests that if you are just hanging around waiting for a train, you could perhaps do a spot of weeding.
Those planters are still there today, and if you take a walk round the town in the growing season, you will see more and more evidence of this innovative approach to growing. There are runner beans in the cemetery, tomatoes along the canal path and broccoli stems at the bus stop. You can pick your five a day from the fruit trees outside the health centre, or pop round the back to find some more herbs in the apothecary’s garden.
Even the local bobbies are in on the act. The raised beds outside the police station boast some splendid sweetcorn, along with many other fine crops. And no, they won’t arrest you if you take some; they’d actually rather like it if you did.

Planters with sweet corn and other vegetables outside the police station in  Todmorden.

This simple but radical action of growing food in public places for everyone to share is transforming Todmorden. It began when two local women, Mary Clear and Pam Warhurst, became convinced that a food crisis was looming – one that would directly affect their children and grandchildren.
They were determined to take action but suspected words like ‘peak oil’ and ‘transition’ would make people switch off rather than get involved. On the other hand, everyone is interested in food. Food could be the catalyst that got people thinking about what they could grow and what that meant for their whole environment.
So Mary did something drastic. She knocked down the wall that separated her garden from the street. The garden was full of roses, a passion of hers, but, as she likes to point out, ‘you can’t make jam from roses’. So she dug up the flowers and her husband Fred built some raised beds instead. They planted salads and herbs, fruit trees and vegetables.  And they put up a sign saying ‘Help Yourself’.
That got people talking. Mysteriously, more and more vegetables began to spring up around the town. Propaganda planting was taking off. 
Eventually, a public meeting was held and the volunteer movement that is Incredible Edible Todmorden  was born. Now every primary school in the town is growing some kind of food, and the secondary school not only has a vast polytunnel overflowing with organic veg for the school dinners, it’s even building a fish farm with a grant from the lottery. 
There are cookery courses for everyone, a campaign to make ‘every egg a local egg’, and another to encourage more beekeeping. Farmers are reporting an increase in sales and have been inspired to create new products such as cheeses, and sausages from rare breed pork. Recently, volunteers transformed a large piece of donated land into a centre to train people in the skills of sustainable food production. There are also plans for an edible ‘green route’ through the town.
Of course I only ever go to Todmorden as a visitor and cannot know the inevitable tensions and difficulties that arise when a change of this nature is underway. But the evidence that this is working is everywhere, from the children who no longer think carrots come in plastic trays to the social housing tenants who are opening their homes to be used for cookery classes.
Incredible Edible Todmorden emphatically does not fly under any religious banner. However, as a Christian, I find it challenges my faith. I see the transformation that began when someone was prepared to give up their rights to their own garden produce for the good of the whole town and I ask myself whether I would have the courage to do the same. I fear the answer is no, despite the fact that the Bible is bursting with instances of God urging his people to be generous with what they have, and especially their land.
I also think that IET’s attitude to growing is prophetic – and by that I mean that it’s a clear demonstration of a right approach to stewarding land (which is not the same as saying that they have all the answers). Many of us Christians have been very slow to grasp the urgency of the environmental crisis that faces the world, let alone take any action. In Todmorden I see a group of people who are not prepared to sit back and let things go from bad to worse, leaving their grandchildren to cope with the consequences.
What should this say to those of us who claim to worship the One who created the environment in the first place? 

*******

Joanna Dobson

Joanna Dobson is a mature student, writer-in training and mother of three who lives with her husband Julian in the wonderful city of Sheffield. Aside from books and her family, she loves walking, knitting and growing things and is always looking for ways to live more sustainably. She blogs at http://joannadobson.wordpress.com/

I will restore to you the years the locusts have eaten (Joel 2:25): A Guest Post by Penelope Swithinbank

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I can remember how it felt – that walking across the Square, arms stretched long with shopping bags.
I can remember how it felt  – that looking at our church, heart stretched hard and cold with unbelief.
I can remember: before coming to that church the years of losing everything – the business I had started, homes and cars and income, all lost; the worldly stuff I had held so dearly, gone.  Taken by God, vindictively it seemed. 


But then came this church.  Its large draughty  Victorian Rectory. My life turned upside down and not in the way I wanted. For I had enjoyed my status: 20th century vicar’s wives did not usually head up their own nationwide company. Gone. All gone.

I was tired, so tired of it all.
                                                           * * * 
But then I remember: that clergy wives’ conference, days after crossing the Square. The reluctant going, the fear of being thought an abject failure, the hesitancy in case someone uncovered my unbelief. A speaker – who was she? And what did she have to say? Lost in time. But then, oh then, another speaker, who spoke creatively, humourously, and who then asked us to stand so the Lord could minister to us.
STAND? My hesitation – what was this about? My desire to melt away and not be part of this. And then finding myself standing, pulled by the Unseen Presence. His Light, flooding the room. His Warmth enveloping me in ways I could not comprehend. His Voice, unheard, speaking into my poor stretched heart: I am here, I am true, I am your strength.  I AM.
Their prayers for me, surrounding me. My tears falling.  Shaking with the overwhelming sense of His being with me. One stood back, pondered, allowed Him to speak through her voice. 
“I wonder,” she said, “if this verse might be for you? Somewhere in the Old Testament I think. Words from the Lord.  I will restore to you the years the locusts have eaten.”
They prayed some more. He took those words deep into that cold stretched heart. He promised restoration, things that would replace what was lost, devoured and devastated. A swarm of things new and above what was lost.
So I clung to that verse over the years that were to come. Years with ups and downs, but years of fruitful ministry just as He had promised. A book was published, an international speaking gift confirmed, a ministry ordained. The years lost through unbelief were more than made up for. Always I remembered that verse. He had restored the years the locusts had eaten – and more.
                                                                  * * * 
And then.
Seventeen months ago, my mother died. Swept away. One moment she was there, a feisty ninety-year-young who cared ceaselessly for others, drove old ladies to church, talked non-stop on the phone to her friends and family whenever she could.  Prayed for us all, every day.
And the next she was gone, swept away under the wheels of an out-of-control car.
And I stood there, frozen, helpless. Stunned from having been hit by the same car just a few moments before. Deafened by the shouts and screams and sirens. Deafened by the silent scream inside. And my tears turned to ice and my scream frozen deep within.
She was gone.
I stood at her feet and I tried to pray for her, aloud.  Tried to thank God for all she was and had been to me and others; tried to ask Him to take her to Himself; committed her to the One who loved her the best. And the paramedic had tears in her eyes.  “I’ve never heard anyone pray out loud before,” she said.  “Would you like her teeth? And her watch?”
I took the watch and turned to thank the paramedics and the police and the passersby.  People were so kind; so very kind.
But I was frozen.
For seventeen month now, I have been frozen. Unable to work or to play, to read or to write. Lost, barren, devoured by locusts.
But now. A slow greening of tiny shoots again.
A decision to be grateful in the brokenness.*
A monthly Happiness Project.+
And confirmation from He whom my soul loves, that what has yet again been devoured by locusts will be restored to me. 
The verse remembered.
That decision to have a monthly project – for March, to write again.
He promised.  And there was the verse, my verse: on Anita’s tweet. Her invitation on February 29 to write a guest blog.  And on March 1st an offer of a freelance writing project – very small but it’s writing and it’s paid! Unsought, it brought with it His Voice of Promise: I will restore to you the years the locusts have eaten.
Confirmation that my ministry years are not over, as I had feared.

He who has promised is faithful and He will do it. Again and again, whenever it is needed:
“I will restore to you the years the locusts have eaten.” Joel 2:25
*  One Thousand Gifts. Ann Voskamp. Zondervan
+ A Happiness Project. Gretchen Rubin. Harper
*******
Penelope Swithinbank

The Revd Penelope Swithinbank is a widely recognized international conference speaker, both for Alpha and for retreats and pilgrimages.   Author of “Women By Design,” she has been involved in ministry for over 30 years, as pastor’s wife, volunteer, and now as a member of the ordained Anglican clergy.  As a young mother she started her own business, “Bumpsadaisy” which she developed into a successful national franchise across the UK, hiring out designer maternity wear.  Later, whilst working virtually full time as a volunteer in the church, she ran a flourishing Bed & Breakfast business to help pay the bills! She has three children and six grandchildren. 


Penelope  and her husband lived in the USA for six years.  Whilst there, Penelope was firstly Director of C2 Ministries (Community & Connections) at The Falls Church in northern Virginia, and then Interim Rector of The Church of Our Saviour, Johns Island in South Carolina. Now based in London, she runs “Ministries by Design” and leads Retreats and Pilgrimages regularly, and is an Ignatian Spiritual Director, and mentor to younger women clergy.


Penelope has a Master of Theology from St Andrews University Scotland, and degrees in both Education and Pastoral Theology from Cambridge University, England. Find full details on the website or follow her on twitter:


www.ministriesbydesign.org
@minstriesbydsgn

When Cambridge Poets jam the Photocopier with Poetry: A Guest Post by Malcolm Guite

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We’re Jammin…’ : a Confession! 

It’s an honour and a pleasure to be invited by Anita to post a ‘guest blog’ here. I’d like to share with you, if I may, some reflections on the ‘genesis’ of a new poem, its first seeds and beginnings, and then flowing from that some thoughts on what it is that a poem, any poem, might be trying to achieve. It’s a story that starts with a confession and takes you on a journey from the apparently ordinary world of an office photocopier, back to a moment of vision in front of a burning bush, a chance to see things anew.

So, first the confession: I am sorry to say that I am responsible for having broken a college photocopier! It happened like this. I was giving a talk about poetry, in particular about how poetry can cleanse and renew our vision, help us see the familiar in a new way, kindle again the hidden light that God put in the hear of all things, and deep in our own hearts, the ‘light that lightens everyone who comes into the world’. Well that was the plan.

As always I was in a hurry and had forgotten to photocopy the poems in advance. Just minutes before the lecture I rushed into the admin office, hoping the kind lady there would help me with the fearsomely complicated photocopier. It’s one of those machines that has so many extra trays, feeders and blinking lights that it looks like a cross between a combine harvester and a spaceship! But the office was deserted; the lady was on her coffee break. In desperation I decided to have a go myself, and just put the sheaf of poetry into a random feeder tray, picked a number, pressed ‘go’, and hoped for the best. Sure enough multiple copies started spewing out the other end, but as I started to gather them, I heard a horrible graunching noise, warning lights flashed, and the whole machine ground to a halt with a clutch of poems halfway in and half way out.
The bell was going for my class! I glanced guiltily around, wrenched as much poetry as I could out of the crippled machine and headed for my lecture. But I had left my jacket in the office and when I crept back to get it afterwards, the door opened, an accusing finger pointed at me and a stern voice said : ‘Your poetry is jamming my machine!’ I was in trouble!

Well I apologised of course, and explained I’d had to rush off, but between us the secretary and I managed to free the jam and remove the crumpled remains of some of my poems from the machine. Just as I was leaving the office I glanced back and noticed that she was unfolding one of the crumpled pages and starting to read…

When I got home and thought about it all two things became clear; first, what a great line of poetry the phrase ‘your poetry is jamming my machine’ would make, why it even scans as a five-stressed line of ‘iambic pentameter’, and second, I owe that Lady something, maybe she would like a poem. The two thoughts coalesced and stirred me on to this:

                                             On being told my poetry was found in a broken photo-copier

 My poetry is jamming your machine

It broke the photo-copier, I’m to blame,

With pictures copied from a world unseen.

My poem is in the works -I’m on the scene

We free my verse, and I confess my shame,

My poetry is jamming your machine.

Though you berate me with what might have been,

You stop to read the poem, just the same,

And pictures, copied from a world unseen,

Subvert the icons on your mental screen

And open windows with a whispered name;

My poetry is jamming your machine.

For chosen words can change the things they mean

And set the once-familiar world aflame

With pictures copied from a world unseen

The mental props give way, on which you lean

The world you see will never be the same,

My poetry is jamming your machine

With pictures copied from a world unseen

Luckily she liked this poem indeed it turned out that a little more poetry was just what she needed in her life, which in a way is what this poem is about.

We get trapped in what we think is humdrum until something or someone opens our eyes and lets us see the wonder around and within us.

Mount Horeb was just part of Moses’ daily commute, in the humdrum dead-end job he had looking after his father-in-law’s sheep until one day it all changed, one of the scrubby little bushes that dot the mountain side to which he had hardly given a second glance, was suddenly lit from within, alive and dancing with a coruscating light of joy and holiness that illuminated the bush and all around it and yet didn’t consume it, just let it continue to be its own newly glorious self. So Moses stopped, took off his shoes on Holy ground, and his life and our lives, changed forever…
The poet Elizabeth Browning said ‘earth’s crammed with Heaven and every common bush ablaze’, and she’s right, if only we had eyes to see. The priest-poet George Herbert put it perfectly in a poem that we sometimes sing as a hymn:

A man that looks on glass

On it may stay his eye

Or if he pleaseth through it pass

And then the heaven’s espy.

Well that’s my confession; they say it’s good for the soul. I’m happy to say that the photocopier got fixed, and last time I was in there I saw my poem had been pinned above it on the office wall!

Born in Nigeria and raised in Africa and Canada, Malcolm Guite is a poet and singer-songwriter living in Cambridge, where he also works as a priest and academic. He is the author of Faith Hope and Poetry (Ashgate 2010, paperback 2012) and has published poems in Radix, The Mars Hill Review, Crux, Second Spring and Christianity and Literature. He is also a singer-songwriter and is currently front man for Cambridge rockers Mystery Train. His CDs The Green Man and Dancing through the Fire are out on Cambridge Riffs and iTunes. www.malcolmguite.com

 Malcolm Guite Image Credit

 

Tasting the Goodness of God in the Land of Motor Neurone Disease: A Guest Post by Michael Wenham

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View from the window



Anita sends me a message on Facebook. Would I think about a guest post on her blog: “Perhaps on how you saw and discovered God’s goodness (if you did) amidst the unexpected disability. So it will sort of sum up ‘My Donkeybody’  in a blog post…”? 



And I sit at the table gazing out of the window, wondering, “What have I got to say?” I was diagnosed with a Motor Neurone Disorder in 2002, and expected to go the way of the vast majority of MND patients and to be dead within a couple of years, after a rapid and distressing loss of muscle control.
Of course, I was a vicar at the time and had had a Christian faith as long as I could remember. That meant, according to some people, that it was especially incomprehensible and unfair that this random disease had hit me and, according to others, that I had an unfair advantage over others having the crutch of faith to soften the blow.
As it happened, evidently, I don’t have the usual ALS but the rare PLS (Primary Lateral Sclerosis) – if you like I have the protracted rather than the accelerated form. One of my friends with the same type was unsure which was preferable, a quick dying or a slow one. Personally, I’m glad still to be alive. However, I am 100% dependent on others for my survival. From getting up in the morning to getting undressed at night, I need help; getting fed, using the toilet, having a shower, going out – all require a carer, which in my case means Jane, my wife, unless she breaks her collar-bone as she did recently. Do I enjoy it? No. 


I wish I was able to walk on the Welsh hills with Jane and the dog, to feel the wind and jump the streams. I wish I could chat to my grandchildren without sounding monstrous. In 2010 I wrote a book with a young mum in South Africa, Jozanne Moss, who also had MND (‘I Choose Everything’). Her first section is “I wish…” in which she vividly lists the things that she misses or knows she won’t be able to do in the future: “I wish… I wish…”. In her conclusion she says, “I might not be able to be the mother I always wished I could be, but I am the mother that God intended for me to be for Luke and Nicole, in order for them to know and love Him.” It’s heart-wrenching. She died on 6th February. No, I don’t enjoy the frustrations. I regret what I’ve lost.
In one way, I envy Jozanne now, because presumably she sees clearly what she previously held on to by faith. As I look out through the french windows, the far side of the road is virtually invisible. I can just distinguish the outlines of the estate houses through the fog. But at a quick glance you wouldn’t know they were there. Even the other side of the garden, which isn’t big, is misty. Only the trough right next to the window retains its vibrant colours. As I reflect on Anita’s challenge, which is how it feels (“how you saw and discovered God’s goodness”), it seems as though this view is a metaphor for my perceptions at the moment. It feels as if a fog has descended on my old certainties.
Of course I know that the estate is there. Only yesterday I was winding my way in my wheelchair through its snickets in the warm sunshine to Cornerstone, the café where I’m always welcomed. Nothing’s changed about the estate, but my view of it has changed. 


Some years ago, God came and strangely warmed me. “Falling in love again” isn’t an adequate description for what that did to me, but it left its indelible mark. Perhaps that’s why I don’t doubt that God’s love is there; and yet now it is shrouded in mystery. Lovely friends with MND have died, and I can’t give an answer as to why they had it, anymore than why God who is love permits all the natural catastrophes and any of the personal tragedies which bedevil our world. If “all shall be well and all manner of thing shall be well”, which I’m still convinced is true, please don’t ask me to begin to explain how. Thatlove is huger and more mysterious than the measures of my mind.
And yet I have evidence, even in the frustrations and physical limitations of my disease, of that love. A few weeks ago, on Ski Sunday, there was a remarkable interview with disabled skier, Peter Dunning, who lost his legs in an IED explosion in Afghanistan. “People may think it’s the most strangest thing that I’m saying, but I think that getting blown up is one of the best things that’s happened to me. I’m such a different person than I was. Before I was a bit of a lads’ lad; now I’m more focused, more determined, and everything, to achieve what I want to achieve, like getting to the Paralympics, and progressing on from there.” I can understand that. I’d prefer not to have MND. I’d rather not have the prospect of gradual decline and eventual fall. But what a gift to discover, for example, that, as I become more of a useless “burden”, it doesn’t even occur to my family and friends to stop loving me! In fact they want to carry me. And it’s incredibly liberating to discover that my value lies not in what I do, however impressive, but in what I am, warts and all.
I once made a list of where I’d found God’s love in my disability. It began at home with the unconditional love of my family, and continued with the faithfulness of friends and the kindness of strangers; the care of professionals and MNDA volunteers. There’d been instances of unexpected provision over and above my needs. Then I recalled moments of beauty, like dew-bejewelled spiders’ webs, and moments of truth, when the Bible seemed to speak. And crucially the gift of bread and wine received as Christ’s body and blood given for me came to rescue me when my mind staggered and gave up.
I, like Peter Dunning, am a different person from who I was. I’m conscious of the mist, of the mystery that is God’s love. I wouldn’t now insist that everyone takes my route to Cornerstone. There are more paths than I’ve explored. I’ve found his love in unexpected people and paces. In fact, in a profound way, life has become more exciting, more of an adventure. I suppose I focus on what’s within my range, like the flowers in the trough, harbingers of spring, bursting with hope, those eight signs of God’s love given to me. Meanwhile I love Tennyson’s pilot, guiding his boat into harbour, whom he hoped to see face to face, when he had crossed the bar. St Paul spoke of love: “For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.”
*******
Michael, Jane, and their friend.
Michael Wenham has a rare form of Motor Neurone Disease (PLS – Primary Lateral Sclerosis).  He is author of My Donkeybody – living with a body that no longer obeys you(Monarch, 2008) and co-author with Jozanne Moss of I Choose Everything (Monarch, 2010). He is retired and lives in Oxfordshire, with Jane his wife.  He has four adult children and three grandchildren.   
He blogs at Diary of a Donkeybody and at Room with a View.

An autobiography in blog posts–II. Oxford, America, Marriage, Writing

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This continues my attempt to write an autobiography in 4 blog posts
1 Childhood, boarding school, a novice at Mother Teresa’s Convent

The city of dreaming spires (not my photo), Oxford, United Kingdom
Like many young Indians, I desperately wanted to leave India for wider, more adventurous and exciting horizons. When praying about where—the US, Canada, Australia, New Zealand or England, I heard an inner voice—which I was somehow certain was God’s, though it was the first time I had heard it–say quite clearly “Just apply to Oxford.” So, I did, no contingency plans, and scrambled together scholarships from the university—the Radhakrishnan fellowship for Indians to study at Oxford and the Eckersley Trust fellowships for students of English at Oxford. I believe that Oxford is part of my destiny and God’s plan for me—though I still don’t know why!!
I earned have a BA and an MA in English from Somerville College, Oxford. My years in Oxford were intense and formative. I read a lot, learnt a lot, made mistakes, made life-long friends. I had been accepted for a Ph.D in English at Oxford, but didn’t get a First. I spent another formative year in Oxford after my degree, reading, and trying to write, and applying to America.
The nuns of the Sacred Heart in North Oxford had opened up their old novitiate to Christian (or barely Christian, as I was then) students, and living there was an intensely formative experience. In a place like Oxford, where many people are formidably clever, you learn as much from your fellow students and reading as from classes—and so I did!
I then moved to America to do a funded Masters in Creative Writing from Ohio State University. Didn’t care much for Columbus, but learned loads from the writing programme, especially from the Director, David Citino, who wasn’t then (though he bloomed later) a hugely talented poet, but one who had a formidable work ethic, the writers’ greatest asset. He woke at 4 a.m. and wrote, producing a prodigious output, but risking his health, and driving himself to an early grave.
And yeah, at the end of my degree, my faith which over those years at university moved from an activated-only-in-crisis SOS mode, to dormancy to near-death now revived. I recommitted myself to following Christ. That sounds grand, doesn’t it?–but becoming a Christian for me has never been the way a caterpillar becomes a butterfly, all in a summer’s afternoon, but the way an acorn becomes an oak. Very slowly.
I moved on to do a Ph.D in Creative Writing at SUNY-Binghamton, with permission to hand in a volume of poetry for my Ph.D as I did for my masters. I enjoyed the classes, but I was teaching two sections of undergraduate classes for tuition and $620 a month. No kidding! And all I wanted to do was read and write.
And so rather sooner than we had planned, after a four week engagement, I married to clever sweet Roy, who is also rather saintly (well, most of the time!)
Having earned a Ph.D in Maths from Johns Hopkins, he was then doing a post-doc in Computer Science at Cornell. He had a sweet fellowship, good anywhere, so once my Ph.D in Binghamton no longer tied him down, we moved to Stanford, Palo Alto, California, where he continued his post-doc in Computer Science. And I stayed home and read and wrote. 
Then we moved to Williamsburg, Virginia, in 1990. I was a fish out of water there, and hated it.
A year later, Roy won another post-doctoral fellowship to the University of Minnesota. I agreed to follow him. I basically felt any city would be better than Williamsburg, which offered no stimulation, no interesting writers, barely any cultural life.
And Minnesota was another of those incredibly fertile, blessed periods in my life. I was reading all the time, my head was buzzing with ideas. 
I had been writing poetry during that first year of marriage, and had pretty much written out all my ideas. (Wow, can’t imagine that happening with blogging or prose.) Around Jan 1991, I started reading women’s memoirs, Patricia Hampl, Annie Dillard, “Frost in May” Mary MacCarthy and a spring opened up within me, as I saw the deep buried world of childhood again, and saw the magic and poetry in it.
And as luck or providence had it, the Twin Cities, Minneapolis and St. Paul, had the largest concentration of memoirists and creative non-fiction writers in the US. I took an excellent, seminal creatively mind-expanding class in Creative Non-fiction from Charlie Sugnet. The work I did in his class during that term won a Memoir award of $6000 from the Minnesota State Arts Board. I also won an award from the Jerome Foundation which paid for a research trip to India. And an award from the Loft Writing Centre which linked me with a mentor. I took courses with Phillip Lopate, David Mura, and one on one with Carol Bly one on one, over several months.
It was one of those periods when most things I touched and tried turned to gold.  Cash grants, essay prizes, fellowships to writers’ conferences, a job teaching creative nonfiction at the Loft. I found a great writers’ group, who became my friends, loved church. And just before we left Minneapols, I went to a writers’ conference at Squaw Valley where I found a very well-known editor and agent Ted Solataroff and Ginger Barber interested in my manuscript.
I was so desperate not to return to Williamsburg that I persuaded Roy to buy a house in Minneapolis, figuring that if we had bought a house, God wouldn’t have the heart to move us. Yeah, sure. He’s not a tame lion. He’s wild and unpredictable. You can’t really control or manipulate him. All you can do is bow the knee.
We worshipped in John Piper’s church when then had a sign painted on its walls, Hope in God. “Yeah, hope in God that you’ll be able to stay in Minnesota,” I said to my soul. God smiled and replied, “No, no, Anita, hope in God because God is good.” But I did not hear him.
And then every job Roy applied to in industry, in academia turned him down—except for the professorship in William and Mary, which remained open.
And so to Williamsburg, we returned, mourning, mourning, mourning.
And stayed there for twelve years!
* * *

Seeking God in the storm of a marital quarrel

By

   

St. John Vianney, the Cure of Ars, saw a French peasant visit his church every day at lunch, and sit motionlessly for an hour.

“What do you do?” he asked curiously.

“I look at him, and he looks at me,” the peasant replied.

                                            * * *

My prayer life moved from lists, intercession and busyness to a more contemplative resting after taking a “Catching the Fire” course with John Arnott (of the Toronto Airport Fellowship and Toronto Blessing) in Oxford, in May 2010. He taught us “soaking prayer” which really, really resonated with me, and felt natural.

And so now, I look at Him, and He looks at me. Ann Voskamp describes in One Thousand Gifts, how she cradled her plump 5 year old sleeping curly-headed daughter, feeling her warm, calm breath, feeling overwhelmed with love. And then the realization falls on her that that’s how God felt about her.

Yes, sometimes, when I am unreasonably delighted by something rather small in the big scale of things, I can almost see Jesus look at me, and laugh in delight, for he’s given it to me. I see him smile at me. I sense his love, affection and attention.

* * *

And sometimes, I sense him look at me with seriousness and
sadness,  and I squirm.

Like today.

Today was not a good day. I was exhausted by 9.30p.m. yesterday, but between excitable teens, emails, tweets, blog comments, social media, bubble baths, arranging tickets to Istanbul in April, reading, hanging out with Roy, it was past 1a.m. by lights out—without anything substantive being done.

Our pet ducks woke us up by quacking at 7 a.m. We were grumpy and friable, so I should have given Roy space and credit.

You know how when you’re tired small arguments can spiral out of control? Ours was about investing. Not the amount, or the instrument, but the frequency.

I handled both the company’s and our family’s accounts until last August, when I decided to focus more on my blog. It was silly me doing accounts, because Roy has a Ph.D and 3 post-doctoral degrees in Mathematics, and I—I dropped Maths at 15 (though I was rather good at it.)

But I doubted Roy would invest with steadiness, consistency and discipline–so I did the books!

I enjoy the things money can buy—travel, plants, being able to entertain friends, books, music, art, experiences—so I am not a natural saver. Knowing that, every week, I put some money into the mortgage, and twice that into savings and retirement, with a huge amount of pride and self-congratulation.

Roy is a naturally prudent spender and saver, and time-obsessed. He saves without thinking about it because he hates waste and unnecessary expenditure. He cannot see the point of this weekly squirreling.

“Let’s just put in a lump sum at the start of the month,” he said.

Me, “Oh, but then we’ll tie it up, and we might want a weekend away, or to catch a ferry to France, or we might have time to finally upgrade the sofa.”

He, “Well, don’t!”

Yeah, simple!!  Whoever said men are from Mars, women are from Venus got it wrong. Yeah, women are indeed from Venus. But men, men are from Pluto, or some perfectly dreadful distant planet.

“Do it my way, Roy,” I say, magisterially. “Slow and steady….”

Well, I don’t get to finish that sentence.

An explosion!

Now I get cross too, but it’s like a summer shower, heavy, and over in minutes.

He is generally quiet and patient, but when he’s had enough, well, it’s thunder, lightning, hail, the deluge all at once. And these atmospheric conditions are rather prolonged (until he gets his way).

Note the snarkiness of the last comment!
                                                             * * *

Ironically, I was working on a poem which flowed beautifully yesterday, which I almost felt Christ speaking to me, until the intensity of writing it exhausted me. I did not want to fight over trivia, and was annoyed by the fight. I wanted to get back into the zone, and overhear Christ dictate the rest of that intense, passionate poem.

So I kept my temper, and said quiet, calm but mildly sarcastic, mildly snarky things, which, of course, heightened Roy’s temper.

Okay, we are now factoring in New Year’s Eve fireworks to the thunder and lightning and hail which prevailed.

And eventually, the fireworks and weather die down. We reach a compromise on some of the thorny issues which have emerged, but not on investing. (“Come on, Roy, do it my way. Weekly,” I urge my blog, but not the Fearsome Man himself).

And I have quiet time. I look at Him and He looks at me. Sadly.

Oooh, and I repent.

I used to be a fiery girl. When did I become  passive-aggressive–the coward’s behaviour, which, above all others, I have the most contempt for?

So I kept my temper, but was as provocative as I had lost it. Didn’t fool Roy. Didn’t fool Jesus.

“Keep calm,” I tell myself, when Roy loses his temper. But that is not the right word to say to myself.

The right word, sigh, is

LOVE.

And if your blood is boiling, and you want to throw something at this infuriating stranger you loved last night, and this morning, and you now momentarily feel no love for? Well, say LOVE as a mantra, because that is what Christ would say to you, if he were physically present, counselling you.

And if you cannot say it, if you say, “If I have to love him NOW, I’ll burst”—well say other things.  Say, “Have mercy on me, O God, have mercy on me, for in you my soul takes refuge. I will take refuge in the shadow of your wings until the storm has passed. (Psalm 57:1)

Or  Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
   will sing in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say of the LORD, “He is my refuge and my fortress,
   my God, in whom I trust.” (Ps 97.1)

Yes, I will hide in Jesus in future, take refuge in Jesus, until the storm has passed. I will love if I can. I will not exacerbate matters with gently spoken snark, but speak the gentle words which turn away wrath.

Sounds good, doesn’t it? And not so easy when one is angry. And so I need to add, “So help me, God.”

* * *

Don’t you love the air after a thunderstorm? So clear, so full of promise. The birds and crickets sing.

So, our marital blowup has cleared the air…. Though this is not the best way. There has be a better one. We will seek it.


And okay, the next time that infuriating, adorable, clever, wrong-headed, exasperating and good husband of mine provokes me, hopefully I will be loving, rather than just controlling my temper; speak words of gentle life, rather than gentle provocation; and hopefully, the next time I look at other Man who loves me, I will look at him, and he will look at me, and there will not be reproach in his eyes. 

God in the cracks: A year in an earthquake zone: Christchurch, New Zealand. (Guest Post by Claudia McFie)

By

Beauty among the ruins
Photo by Ross Becker, photographer 


24 February 2011, I was sitting beside a rural road near Christchurch, New Zealand, hugging my knees to my chest and trying to cry.
Two days earlier I had been running for my life as my city came crashing to the ground around me.  For the first two days I’d been concentrating so much on survival – walking 2 hours home, part of the way barefoot, then boiling rainwater we’d collected for using in the garden so we had something to drink, walking 5km to the only supermarket that was open to buy milk and bread.  


On this day, the emotions finally started catching up with me.
I sat surrounded by open fields and empty sky, yet every time I closed my eyes all I could see was the wall of a three story building toppling towards me in slow motion.  There is still gritty dust through my hair, ears and fingernails.  There is still no water supply, so no chance to wash, only hand sanitiser. 
Sitting beside that farm gate, my guts ached with grief.  It was a raw, bleeding, empty kind of feeling, like some part of my soul had been ripped out.  I was seeking solitude to cry and pray, but tears wouldn’t come, all I had was an aching pressure behind my eyes and a tightness in my chest.
I tried to pray, but words wouldn’t come, and all I could feel was the pain in my spirit.  All my mind can do is replay again and again my mind replayed the jolty jerky feeling in my stomach as the ground lurched beneath me. 
                                                                 * * *
I remembered a day in my late teens, more than 20 years ago, when I had also sought solitude, this time walking and sitting beside a river.  There I had prayed for the first time, “God, I can’t do this.  I’ve made a mess of my life, so I’m handing my life over to you.”  A promise came into my mind “Don’t be afraid.  I will never leave you or forsake you.  No matter where you go or what happens I will never leave you.
In February 2011 I couldn’t connect to God’s presence, but I held onto the promise that he was still with me, carrying me through this valley of the shadow of death.    Everything else has stripped away, but I cling onto Faith.
Since September 2010, my city has been experiencing an ongoing seismic event.  Some 10,000 aftershocks, 41 of them have been greater than magnitude 5.  The most recent “big” one was a magnitude 6 on 23 December 2011.  Even as I’m writing this I feel a vibration rumble past beneath me.  I inhale and my stomach clenches, then it passes. (That was a magnitude 3.4, at 3km depth about 10km south of my house).  Prior to September 2010, there had not been any significant earthquakes in the region for more than a century.
The past year, I’ve experienced the anxiety of going about life, never sure when the “next one” will come.  I would go into shopping malls, and scan around to work out where the best “safe place” would be.  I avoid brick walled buildings, crossing the street if I need to.
I’ve experieced watching the cranes and diggers and “munchers” demolish my city.  Nearly 1400 commercial buildings either have been or are being deconstructed, many of them heritage buildings.  The Cathedral that was the heart of my City lies in ruins, as the debate continues among both believers and non-believers for its future. 6,500 homes in the suburbs have been abandoned, the land unable to be rebuilt on.  Others still await the assessment of their fate.
As the days and weeks went by.  The tears came in their time, and I learned to grieve and lament.  But prayer remained beyond my reach.  I offered my tears as prayers, but the emptiness within me remained.  “I know there is more than this.  I’ve experienced God’s presence in the past, and I long to find that again.”
And the quakes kept coming.
Winter came, and our house was not weathertight – our chimney had collapsed leaving us without heating, and our roof covered by a tarpaulin.  Rainwater dripped through the ceiling.I was so thankful that our chimney was replaced by a steel flue and our woodburner repaired in time for the “once in 50 years” blizzard that hit mid year.  A month later we lived through a “once in 70 years” snow storm.
I strived to pray.  I tried to find my soul again, but the sense of connecting with God was simply not there.  I still felt hollow, like a part of me was missing.  Then I realised I was trying to find God with my own effort.  It’s like trying to pull myself up with my shoelaces.  “Lord, I can’t do this.  Only you can.  I’m letting go.  I am here, and I trust you.”
I was burnt out and exhausted.  I had run out of “cope”.  I went to work, I looked after my children, then once they were in their beds I would curl up on the sofa or on my bed.  I’d try to lose myself in reading fiction.  Anywhere but the here and now.  I didn’t even want to log onto my computer.  I stopped writing and blogging.  Everyone else I spoke to in Christchurch was experiencing the same kind of fatigue.
Recovery has come slowly.  It has taken over a year since that day beside the rural road.  Counselling has helped, as has asking as many people as I can to please pray for me.  The difference came as I found myself space to be quiet and still.  As I stopped trying to pray, I just sat and waited.  “I am here, Lord.”  In the stillness, I started to feel the smallest flicker, no more than a whisper of life within my spirit again.  I found that I could pray again, and feel the response within my spirit again.
2012 is the year my city will begin its rebuild.  It will never be the same as it was before the earthquakes, and tears come as I write that sentence, but what it will be is stronger, and better.  My life will never be the same again, but God has stayed true to his promise.  He never left me, and I know I will come through this stronger and better.
How you can help Christchurch recover:
1.     Pray.  Pray for those who grieve for the 185 lives lost on 22nd February 2011.  Pray for the injured, who are still recovering.  Pray for those traumatised, the emotional wounds that for many are still raw.  Those burnt out and exhausted. Pray for those struggling with insurance issues, and uncertaintity about their future.
2.     Donations can be made through:
*  The Christchurch Earthquake Mayoral Relief Fund  provides funding toward projects that contribute to the rebuilding of the social and physical infrastructure of Christchurch following the earthquakes.
*  The Red Cross 2011 Christchurch Earthquake Appeal is focused on welfare issues providing emergency & hardship grants as well as bereavement grants.
* The Christchurch Earthquake Appeal (NZ Government) will help rebuild those things that are at the heart of Christchurch communities, the places and services that make a city worth living in; community facilities which took decades of fundraising to put in place, such as sports fields, parks, community buildings and historic buildings, which were ruined within hours.
*******
Claudia McFie
Claudia is a working mother of three children (aged 3, 5 and 8) living in Christchurch New Zealand.  She started blogging in 2010 as Adulcia – Beneath the Surface.  You can see news footage of her experiences in the Christchurch Earthquake of 22nd February 2011 here.