In which I celebrate friendship and relationships | Anita Mathias: Dreaming Beneath the Spires

On Juggling

Irene, my 15 year old, has decided to become a master juggler. (I blame Baroness Susan Greenfield who told her class that juggling makes you clever).

And now the air is full of the swish-swish-swish of juggling balls.

And as for me, words and ideas which might have been sublime (one can always dream!) slip away with that swish-swish-swish!

“Irene, stop juggling within earshot, or I’ll confiscate those balls.”She looks at me pityingly.

“I am 15, mum. You can’t confiscate things anymore.”

Can’t I? Apparently not.

I return to juggling words.

Juggle. Juggle. Juggle. Coloured balls, words, ideas.

Hopefully something will emerge from all this juggling–cleverness, a blog post, a book…

* * *

And here’s a muscular poem for your Sunday from a master word-juggler

Digging

BY SEAMUS HEANEY

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds

Bends low, comes up twenty years away

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.

On Re-Learning the Beautiful Art of Friendship

By Anita Mathias

The rather wonderful Stephen Fry upset the internets by telling Irish television host Gay Byrne what Stephen Fry would say to God when they eventually met up.

How dare you! How dare you create a world in which there is such suffering that is not our fault? It’s not right; it’s utterly, utterly evil. Why should I respect a capricious, mean-minded, stupid god, who creates a world which is so full of injustice and pain?”

Because the God who created this universe, if it was created by a god, is quite clearly a maniac, an utter maniac, totally selfish.

He is monstrous, utterly monstrous, and deserves no respect whatsoever.

* * *

Yup, Stephen Fry intends to give God a hard time (and I rather hope God would be merciful and perhaps amused enough not to give Stephen Fry a hard time in turn).

What about Jesus? Would Stephen Fry give Jesus a hard time? Would he dare to? I doubt it. Few people are offended by Jesus.

* * *

Most people love Jesus for his kindness; from my childhood, however, I have wistfully respected his cleverness. The way he got out of the traps laid for him by the scribes and Pharisees. I sometimes realised that fellow students, teachers, nuns or relatives were trying to trap me with their questions (and often did not!), but was rarely quick-thinking, poised, self-confident, or forthright enough to sidestep traps the way Jesus did.

And Jesus impressively summarised monumental ideas in a “tweet“. A sentence. He summed up the law and the prophets (about 622,000 words: 2500 pages in a standard paperback!!) in a sentence–three imperatives. Love God. Love yourself. Love your neighbour.

* * *

Loving yourself. We hear far less of that than of loving God or loving our neighbour.

It certainly wasn’t taught when I grew up in India in the sixties.

What is loving oneself? Caring for ourselves the way we care for our toddlers. Resting when we need to rest. Giving our bodies and minds the foods we need to perform optimally. Not running on empty spiritually, but refilling in God’s presence. Feeding our hearts with good relationships. Forgiving ourselves for our shortcomings and mistakes. Cutting ourselves slack.

Perhaps this radical self-forgiveness makes it easier to forgive others. Perhaps cutting yourself slack makes it easier to cut others slack.

* * *

I went through my entire Facebook today, following some people, unfollowing others. (I periodically do this, thereby giving myself an entirely different newsfeed!)

People who’ve had a near-death experience say their entire life flashed before them. Well, my entire life flashed before me as I looked at every face on my Facebook friends list.

I saw many lovely faces from my past…from primary school and boarding school, from my university days in England and America, from churches in England and America, from writing, from the school gates, former neighbours… Friendships which have endured.

I am more of an extrovert than an introvert. I feel a lot of warmth and affection towards people. I love hanging out with people. I love friendships. But, alas, I am a bit of a classic A type personality, with high expectations of myself and others. Instead of cutting people slack, I can get really annoyed by what is really annoying about them. I sometimes get so annoyed that I basically sever a friendship.

I scroll through my Facebook friends, and see the faces of former real heart-friends, BFF’s who are now just Facebook friends.

And “stalking” these friends’ pages, I see faces of other people I had been good friends with, but had got annoyed with (sometimes for good reason), fallen out with, and am now no longer friends with, at all.

Some faces: so sweet, so full of light. And seeing those faces, I see I had been too harsh, too negative in my judgments, too focused on their very real weaknesses, instead of the very real goodness and light and sweetness in them.

I am sad.

The wonderful Serenity Prayer asks for strength to accept the things we cannot change. To take this sinful world as it is, not as we would have it. There is a lot of wisdom to doing the same with people.

* * *

When I went to St. Mary’s Convent, Nainital, a hill station boarding school in the Himalayas, aged nine, my father, who had himself been sent to a hill station boarding school, Montfort School, Yercaud, aged 6, advised me, “If you find someone really irritating, ignore them. Stop talking to them. But don’t do that too often, or you’ll soon have no one to talk to.”

I obviously hadn’t considered such a course of action, but it became my survival strategy for decades.

Jesus tuned out the scribes and Pharisees and the hypocrites. I have done that erstwhile friends I have got annoyed with instead of talking things through. Instead of learning how to gently confront.

But no more. I will talk things through. I will relate as an adult, vulnerably sharing what is bugging me, instead of relating as the petulant nine year old who solved relational problems by severing the relationship. I will cut people slack, and instead of expecting perfection will ride through the troughs in friendships, the revelation of the shadow side of my friends, just as I would like them to blow off revelations of the shadow side of me with the breath of kindness.

* * *

Michael Hyatt contrasts a successful friend of his with a writer client who craved success which eluded him (and was, incidentally, not brilliant at relationships.)

That success eluded that writer is not surprising. Creativity thrives in a environment of connections and relationships, as Jonah Lehrer observed in Imagine. People are healthier when they enjoy what Dr. Dean Ornish calls “the healing power of social support.” Bowling Alone estimates that each friendship is worth $1000 through the connections, tips, insights and information it opens up. People who enjoy wide, deep and rich friendships are happier, wealthier and healthier!

Because of the mysterious, undeserved grace of God, my life is indeed rich, full, happy and creative. However, it would have been richer, fuller, happier, and more creative, if I had grappled every friend I’ve ever made to my heart with hoops of steel.

* * *

But we can change. We can change at any time. That is the exciting thing about being a Christian.

The friendships I have invested in, I will invest in maintaining.

Change in mid-life? Yup!

* * *

How do we change?

The Greek New Testament word for repentance is metanoia, “to come to your senses; to come to your right mind; to intelligently understand.” We realise that Jesus taught theology in relationship, that Jesus, in effect, behaved as if relationships, vertical and horizontal, were what life was all about; that the core of a happy, successful life was love–loving relationships, kindness, affection. We decide to re-learn the beautiful art of friendship.

But, of course, since perhaps 90% of our psychological, emotional and spiritual life goes on in the dark subconscious realm of imprinted repressed memories, damaged emotions and Pavlovian reactions, changing is more complex than simply deciding to change.

But we have other resources.

We ask for help from above; we ask God to change our hearts. We claim the promise in Ezekiel: I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit in you; I will remove from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh (Ez. 36:26). Wow, God changing the deep structure of our hearts, molecule by molecule. (I have experienced this, this slow subliminal change of my heart through the action of God’s spirit within me–so I know it’s true.)

And then we rely on the filling of the Spirit, the Spirit producing fruit within us that we cannot produce ourselves: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control, as Paul writes in Galatians.

And so we row on into a happier future, having learned from our mistakes. Row into, possibly, a richer, happier future, than if we had not messed up, analysed our mistakes, repented, and decided to, with God’s help, change.

Thoughts on my Twenty-Fifth Wedding Anniversary

By Anita Mathias

So Roy and I have been married for 25 years.

It’s customary to dispense advice on such occasions, but I have little to give.

The things that have worked for us have evolved slowly. And conversely, some advice from the marriage books—“Always go to the bed at the same time,” have wasted time.

* * *

Barbara Brown Taylor made famous the question, “What is saving your life right now?”

Well, here are some things that are saving our marriage.

1 Getting a weekly cleaner. Oh yes!

2 The weekly date. Or perhaps a walk together several times a week.

3 Deciding that throwing things is a very expensive way of resolving an argument.

4 Forgiveness. A mental act of balancing. I know Roy would do most things for me, within reason, and often without reason, and when I am very angry, I place that against my reason for rage!!

I remember that I have committed to love him, and that my discipleship of Christ isn’t worth much, if I can’t love the person who loves me most.

5 Travel. Ah, travel! Travel saves our marriage (a FACT hotly disputed by my other half!)

It gives us time to be together, to see new art and architecture, to experience history, to revel in nature, to eat new foods, and laugh at (and with) new people.

It’s time out that we’d be unlikely to take at home, given our busy-bee, workaholic driven natures.

Travel is a major source of happiness, as is our garden.

6 Learning that not every criticism needs to be voiced. I now quietly think, “My, isn’t he being annoying!!” For perhaps the first twenty years, I’d declare, “Roy, you are being very annoying!” Now I roll my eyes, and return to work.

Okay, I guess most people learnt this in kindergarten, but in many ways, I am a late developer!

In fact, much of this probably sounds so blindingly obvious to any mature adult that if you stop reading right now, I’ll forgive you!

7 Me, I increasingly do life by prayer, but for years I omitted to pray faithfully for Roy, and I often still forget. Mea Culpa, and I repent.

8 When our partner felt far too infuriating for any rational adult to endure, we got help, separately, and together, from some superb Christians. We are specially grateful to our dear friend Paul Miller, author of the excellent A Praying Life for discipling us over five years.

* * *

When Ruth, spunky wife of Billy Graham, was asked if she had ever contemplated divorce, she famously said, ‘Divorce? No! Murder? Yes.’

Divorce wasn’t an option for us, either. Ah, we’ve sat in exhaustion, sighed, and said brightly, “Let’s–get–divorced!!” and grinned happily and, in that instant, it seemed as if with that act all our problems would waft away, especially what seemed like our biggest problem: each other.

But then Roy remembered that I probably would get lost on the way to the grocery store or burn my dinner, and I thought he would let the house get SO messy and lose everything in it, while he played chess all day, and he thought I would be crushed by life’s practicalities, and I thought he would get too sad without me and live on oatmeal.

And so we checked the name of our marriage certificates, discovered that apparently we were married to the right person, and so we continued.

And our marriage has got better year after year.

And so it should, so it should, for Christians, who if they are half-way, quarter-way decent at following Christ should be growing each year in mercy, pity, peace and love.

***

At our wedding, the celebrant outlined all we had going for us. We were highly educated, with Oxbridge undergraduate degrees and US advanced degrees, intelligent enough, young, healthy, with at least one profession between us.

But we had liabilities too: intensity; type-A personalities; drivenness; hot, hot tempers… In many ways, we were too like each other.

We’ve had adventures. Married in Binghamton, NY; a year in Cornell, Ithaca, New York for a post-doc for Roy; another year at Stanford, Palo Alto, California another post-doc; and then two years in Minneapolis, Minnesota yet another post-doc; then 12 years at The College of William and Mary, Williamsburg, Virginia where Roy became a professor of mathematics, and then Roy won a prestigious mathematical prize and the world opened up, and there were job offers, and he was a visiting professor at the University of Manchester, and then at Oxford, and then got a chair at the University of Birmingham.

And I wrote, moving from poetry to prose, and then improbably started a business which within 3 years grew too big and too complex for me to run alone.

“20 years is far too long to be a mathematician.” I said, and Roy frowned.

Nah, I never saw the point of maths, just as he never saw the point of poetry…

And Roy quit maths to run the company I founded, morphing from a mathematician to an entrepreneur—something I can definitely see the point of!!–and I morphed from a poet to a memoirist and a blogger, writing about us on the world wide web, no doubt much to Roy’s embarrassment.

Our hair was black; now, there are shades of grey.

We were barely Christian; now we are thoroughly Christian. Yeah, we’ve come a long way, baby!

We’ve had two daughters, Zoe and Irene, happy and clever.

We’ve owned three homes in Minneapolis, Minnesota, Williamburg, Virginia, and Oxford, England (not at the same time).

We’ve had five dogs in the course of our marriage, all from rescues, except our current adorable, but not yet fully-trained Merry the Labradoodle.

We’ve travelled in so many countries. Too many to count, and we can’t, since we don’t know where our old passports are. (We’ve each changed citizenship three times, India-US-UK for me, and NZ-US-UK for Roy.) But let me try: Israel, Japan, Mexico, Costa Rica, New Zealand, Czech Republic, Norway, Sweden, Finland, Denmark, Holland, Greece, Spain, Italy, France, Germany, Austria, Switzerland, Malta, Luxembourg, oh most European countries…

Too much travel. Probably!

* * *

Marriage is a place of belonging and acceptance. It can also be a purifying fire, a place of rapid growing up, of growth in grace, in mercy, in forgiveness and wisdom

And what comes out of the purifying fire?

Eventually gold refined until impurities vanish.

The gold of a long marriage.

* * *

Sometimes at the end of a marathon, while the completers are savouring their iced lemonade and smuggery, and the cheers have almost died down, you see a couple emerging from the mist, arms draped around each other, staggering towards the finish line.

There they are, they have done it, they have limped their marathon, they have hobbled, but they have completed it.

And here they are, ridiculously grinning, so pleased with themselves, quite oblivious of the fact that others have long finished and are now napping at home.

And that too is success of the kind. The success of persisting.

Ah, see them now, the big smile on their faces. Against the odds they’ve finished that race, they’ve kept the faith, they are ready for the next marathon.

So Happy Twenty-fifth Anniversary, Roy. Happy Twenty-fifty Anniversary Me. Happy Twenty-fifty anniversary, Us.

* * *

Tweetables

What’s saving your marriage right now? Thoughts on my 25^th wedding anniversary from @anitamathias1

Lessons learned from 25 years of marriage from @anitamathias1

On Being Christian with a small c or a big C

By Anita Mathias

Image Credit

Our family was discussing a writer who has done paradigm-breaking innovative work.

“Is she a Christian?” my daughter Irene asked.

“Yes. She’s a Christian. With a small C, I’d guess.”

“What’s that?” Irene asked.

“Hmm… Someone who goes to church, more or less respects Jesus and the Bible, but who does not see the existence of God, and the coming of Christ as the central axis on which their life spins.”

Irene: “Are you a Christian with a small c or a big C?”

Me, “Oh, I am hopelessly Christian. Christian with a Big C.”

Zoe adds, “Except you do not go to church.”

We all laugh.

* * *

This is slander, dear readers; I do go to church. But these splendid summer days often find me exhausted by 5.30 p.m. when it’s time to leave to church, and so I, on occasion, worship God by a long solitary walk through the fields around our house, or a nap, or gardening, or even quietly praying in the empty house.

Having grown up Catholic, there is glorious freedom in being able to skip church without guilt. I, however, truly believe in the value of Christian fellowship and in belonging to an excellent church; I frequently come back from services at our church, St. Andrew’s, Oxford, with peace in my heart, and a smile on my lips. However, a key life verse since my twenties has been “In repentance and in rest, you shall be saved. In quietness and in confidence shall be your strength”(Is 30:15). So when I am tired, I try not to push, not even spiritually.

We talked about the writer’s brilliant book, Daring Greatly which I loved. It is about understanding and developing the self, and about bravery. Saying it’s about being your best self sounds too pop-culturish, but that’s one way of summarizing it. It is an excellent book, just not a Christian book, particularly: it isn’t one that Jesus would have written. Jesus would have said that we find our best selves in losing ourselves, in serving, in washing feet.

Oh Jesus! You do complicate a girl’s life, don’t you? I would be Christian with a small c if I could, but you have stretched my mind and spirit to a new dimension, and so I have to follow you, slow step by step.

The Gift of Limits. The Gift of Learning to Say No

By Anita Mathias

Here’s a striking story from The Emotionally Healthy Church by Pete Scazzero.

Rabbi Edwin Friedman tells the story of a man who had given much thought to what he wanted from life. After trying many things, succeeding at some and failing at others, he finally decided what he wanted.

One day the opportunity came for him to experience exactly the way of living that he had dreamed about. But the opportunity would be available only for a short time. It would not wait, and it would not come again.

Eager to take advantage of this open pathway, the man started on his journey. With each step, he moved faster and faster. Each time he thought about his goal, his heart beat quicker; and with each vision of what lay ahead, he found renewed vigour.

As he hurried along, he came to a bridge that crossed through the middle of a town. The bridge spanned high above a dangerous river.

After starting across the bridge, he noticed someone coming the opposite direction. The stranger seemed to be coming toward him to greet him. As the stranger grew closer, the man could discern that they didn’t know each other, but yet they looked amazingly similar. They were even dressed alike. The only difference was that the stranger had a rope wrapped many times around his waist. If stretched out, the rope would reach a length of perhaps thirty feet.

The stranger began to unwrap the rope as he walked. Just as the two men were about to meet, the stranger said, “Pardon me, would you be so kind as to hold the end of the rope for me?”
The man agreed without a thought, reached out, and took it.

“Thank you,” said the stranger. He then added, “Two hands now, and remember, hold tight.” At that point, the stranger jumped off the bridge.

The man on the bridge abruptly felt a strong pull from the now extended rope. He automatically held tight and was almost dragged over the side of the bridge.

“What are you trying to do?” he shouted to the stranger below.

“Just hold tight,” said the stranger.

This is ridiculous, the man thought. He began trying to haul the other man in. Yet it was just beyond his strength to bring the other back to safety.

Again he yelled over the edge, “Why did you do this?”

“Remember,” said the other, “If you let go, I will be lost.”

“But I cannot pull you up,” the man cried.

“I am your responsibility,” said the other.

“I did not ask for it,” the man said.

“If you let go, I am lost,” repeated the stranger.

The man began to look around for help. No one was within sight.

He began to think about his predicament. Here he was eagerly pursuing a unique opportunity, and now he was being side-tracked for who knows how long.

Maybe I can tie the rope somewhere, he thought. He examined the bridge carefully, but there was no way to get rid of his new- found burden.

So he again yelled over the edge, “What do you want?”

“Just your help,” came the answer.

“How can I help? I cannot pull you in, and there is no place to tie the rope while I find someone else who could help you.”

“Just keep hanging on,” replied the dangling man. “That will be enough.”

Fearing that his arms could not hold out much longer, he tied the rope around his waist.
“Why did you do this?” he asked again. “Don’t you see what you have done? What possible purpose could you have in mind?”

“Just remember,” said the other, “my life is in your hands.”

Now the man was perplexed. He reasoned within himself, “If I let go, all my life I will know that I let this other man die. If I stay, I risk losing my momentum toward my own long-sought-after salvation. Either way this will haunt me forever.”

As time went by, still no one came. The man became keenly aware that it was almost too late to resume his journey. If he didn’t leave immediately, he wouldn’t arrive in time.

Finally, he devised a plan. “Listen,” he explained to the man hanging below, “I think I know how to save you.” He mapped out the idea. The stranger could climb back up by wrapping the rope around him. Loop by loop, the rope would become shorter.

But the dangling man had no interest in the idea.

“I don’t think I can hang on much longer,” warned the man on the bridge.

“You must try,” appealed the stranger. “If you fail, I die.”

Suddenly a new idea struck the man on the bridge. It was different and even alien to his normal way of thinking. “I want you to listen carefully,” he said, “because I mean what I am about to say.”

The dangling man indicated that he was listening.

“I will not accept the position of choice for your life, only for my own; I hereby give back the position of choice for your own life to you.”

“What do you mean?” the other asked, afraid.

“I mean, simply, it’s up to you. You decide which way this ends. I will become the counterweight. You do the pulling and bring yourself up. I will even tug some from here.”
He unwound the rope from around his waist and braced himself to be a counterweight. He was ready to help as soon as the dangling man began to act.

“You cannot mean what you say,” the other shrieked. “You would not be so selfish. I am your responsibility. What could be so important that you would let someone die? Do not do this to me.”

After a long pause, the man on the bridge uttered slowly, “I accept your choice.” In voicing those words, he freed his hands and continued his journey over the bridge.

* * *

Ironically, the closer you come to crossing the bridge to your dreams, the more people will appear jumping off the bridge, insisting that you and only you can save them from drowning.

And it is a lie.

While as Christians we are called to love our spouse, our children, and a few others, we only have two hands and finite time and strength, and so we need to be careful about which of the many ropes tossed to us we choose to hold. Which of the many calls on our time and compassion we answer. How many coffees we serve, cakes we make, meals we deliver.

* * *

Michael Hyatt writes brilliantly about this in a post called Success and Accessibility.

He writes, “The more successful you become, the more other people will demand of your time. As a result, if you are going to maintain margin for your most important priorities, you will have to make some difficult decisions about your accessibility.

He quotes Andy Stanley, who writes,

“The harsh reality is that the more successful we are, the less accessible we become. So then we are faced with the dilemma of who gets my time and who doesn’t, when do they get it, and and how much of it do they get.”

Hyatt continues, “Your time is a zero sum game. When you say yes to one thing, you are simultaneously saying no to something else. The more successful you get, the more difficult this becomes. You find yourself saying no to good things—worthy things—in order to say yes to your most important priorities.

After all, from the perspective of the one asking, it is not a big request. But to agree to their requests would require a major investment of my time. Add all the requests together, and I am soon eating into the time allotted for my own projects, friends, family, and health.

Hyatt suggests

1. Acknowledge your resources are finite. This is a fact. You have 168 hours per week. No more, no less. Every time you commit to something, you are depleting your available time. Your other resources are also limited, including your attention, money, and energy.

If you ignore this, it will eventually catch up with you. You will pay a high price when that happens—perhaps an emotional breakdown, a divorce, wayward kids, a business failure, or a health crisis.

2. Determine who needs access and who doesn’t. Not everyone needs full access to you. They may think they do, but they don’t. Therefore, you must prioritise your contacts and relationships.

Remember: once you let people in, it is hard to ask them to leave without creating misunderstanding or hurt feelings. Be intentional.”

* * *

“Hold the rope or I will drown.” The call comes to us from in many ways, and from many people.

Questions to ask: Will this person truly drown if I don’t hold the rope, or will they learn to swim? Will they drag me down, or will I pull them up? Is this person willing to change if I hold the rope, or do they want an audience for moaning and lamentation? Am I the only person who can hold the rope? Does God want me to hold the rope for this demanding person, or to cross the bridge to the destiny to which He has called me?

If you feel huge anger and resentment at this rope you’ve been tossed, if God has not called you to hold this rope as your unique call in life, Fail Quickly. Let go!

P.S. They will probably learn to swim, or find the next passer-by to fling their rope to.

“Fine, Let Them Judge Me”: The Peace of Boundaries

By Anita Mathias

Several years ago now, I was in a Bible study which had some very assertive people who were often unwell. And so there were endless rotas: to take meals around, clean their houses, do their ironing, or give them lifts.

Now, I was over-burdened myself, but I didn’t want the leader to judge me as a pretend Christian, or a talking head Christian, a chattering class Christian, a “knows the word but doesn’t do it” Christian, or “a puffed up with knowledge” Christian–oh you know the cruel categories we come up with to judge those whose different gifting threatens us.

And so I signed up for rota upon rota. The leader, who had a lowly job in real life, got a real charge and real energy from dominating this church group, mainly well-paid professionals, as if she were our line manager, and we her unpaid employees; these nagging rotas came around even when the group was not in session.

But for all my signing up, the leader did not really like me and I did not really like her, oh the irony!

* * *

And then—last straw– the leader asked one of the unwell Taker ladies, “What more can we do to help you?” And the lady said, “My children would like fresh-baked caked when they come home from school.” And a fresh baked cake rota was passed around. I jest not!

I thought, “This is ridiculous. I have never baked a cake in my life, and I am not driving across town—past exquisite bakeries– bearing sugar and white flour which anyway I’ve banished from my own life.

That’s it. I am going to do the work God has given me to do.

And if the work God has given me to do is to write, then I am going to write, not wake early to chauffeur the woman with mild ME who drives herself to work 4 days a week but is too tired to drive to Bible study. Perhaps she could host it instead, or call in a taxi. I am not going to take my turn of cleaning the house of the lady, who has been feeling too tired to clean, but eats out all the time; she can get a cleaner. I need to stop visiting that negative lady, who said she was lonely and wanted visitors, but depresses me and tears me down. And I am no longer going to drive across town with meals; the supermarkets deliver better meals than I could cook.”

I thought of Rabbi Friedman’s Parable of the Bridge. Whenever you try to fulfull your destiny, they will be people who will insist they are going to drown unless you hold the rope. You can help them up, but you cannot indefinitely hold the rope.

In this case, none of the people who wanted us to provide cleaning, cooking, ironing, chauffeuring and home-baked cakes would have drowned if I did not provide these services.

All this may be the work God has given the leader to do; it was not the work God has given me to do.

If the leader judges me for not taking my turn on her rotas, she judges me.

Fine. Let her judge me.

So she kept asking me to host fund-raisers, to take my turn providing domestic services (equivalent to a part-time job if I’d agreed to all) and I kept saying No. With a bully as with a toddler and or a puppy, one has to be consistent. No, no, no.

And I was happy with my decision, and I did not sign up to her rotas, and I got even happier.

And I incredibly began to get on far better with the leader, which I did not when I was feeling bullied by her demands, and was simmering with resentment , and she, on her part, felt the uncertainty and restlessness of the bully who scents blood, has been successful in some thrusts, and wonders how far she could go in manipulating people to do things both she and they knew they did not want to do.

I now had boundaries. She knew I wasn’t going to crumble, and that brought some peace to our relationship. Ah, boundaries, they are good for both parties.

If you are doing things which are not the work God has given you to do out of fear of judgement, or to curry favour, just stop. You will not curry favour. You will just place the mark of a easy mark on your forehead. You will just be used and abused. You will just get angrier.

Figure out the work God has given you to do, and do just that and do no more out of fear of judgement.

Fine. Let them judge me.

How liberating that was. The peace of that: To train myself not fear men’s judgements, but only to care for the judgement of the Lord, the righteous judge.

In which Annie Relocates the Wirral to Birmingham, and I am Chastened

By Anita Mathias

One gets spoiled in Oxford, gets used to fast-moving, intelligent conversation; to hearing of new books and new ideas, and having your own thinking challenged.

And sometimes, after living here for years, you can think of Oxford as the world. Think of the body of Christ in Oxford as identical to the body of Christ anywhere in the world.

* * *

I went on a retreat in the Cotswolds a few months ago, wanting quiet; time to refill my emotional and spiritual tanks, and to rest in the presence of God.

What I got was a continual rousting for worship and meals and talks, and unkindest cut: childish activities organised by elderly volunteer ladies: “Draw what the Lord is saying to you, and share it with the group.”

I grimace. She gushes, “You never know what the Lord might use to speak to you.” Yeah, but why not try the ancient ways of prayer and scripture?

And, of course, we don’t know each other, and no one wants to give the wrong answer, so it’s a bit of a platitudinous Follow the Leader. A bit sentimental, flat, childlike.

* * *

Garrison Keillor describes his fictional Lake Wobegon as “where all the women are strong, all the men are good-looking, and all the children are above average.” Well, Oxford can be like that.

And here I am, looking around, thinking, “Definitely not Lake Wobegon. Or Oxford. Is X a bit slow?”

Meals are in common, relentless small talk, joshing and joking about unfunny things. My smile grows so fixed that my cheek muscles hurt, and I probably look pretty slow myself.

At the coffee station, the lady I suspected of being a bit “slow” joins me, and she is bewildered. You pay for hot chocolate; tea is free; coffee is free, but apparently they hide the filters, so you have to wait for the staff to make it. Some milk is free, if you can find it; some is private, and labelled.

I spell all this pettiness for her, all the while wanting to get back to my own room.

* * *

“Where are you from, Anita?”

“Oxford,” I say tersely, my personal shorthand for, “NO, I am not going to tell you my life-story.”

“And where you from, Annie?” I ask in turn, politely.

“From the Wirral,” she says. “I bet you don’t know where that it.”

“Of course, I do,” I say with some asperity. “It’s in Birmingham.”

She pauses. “Yes,” she says, slowly. “It is in Birmingham.”

“I have lived in the UK for 14 years” I inform her. “I recognised your accent,” I say proudly, fibbing. Recognised an accent would have been more accurate.

“Yeeess,” she says.

* * *

My mind plays with the conversation on the way back to my room. The Wirral; the Wirral. But wasn’t it somewhere up north? Near Liverpool? I google it on my phone.

Yes, indeed it was.

But why ever had she agreed it was in Birmingham? She lived there after all. She must have known.

* * *

And I realise, with a hot rush of shame.

Annie, an elderly woman I had judged to be slow, had assented to the Wirral being in Birmingham, so as not to embarrass me!!

* * *

Wow, what completely unnecessary sensitivity and delicacy!

Oh, intelligence counts for nothing at all. It is the culture of the spirit which matters. I remembered Christina Rossetti. “All is small save love, for love is all in all.”

I have spent much of my life among clever people, moving to faculty housing at a university campus where my father taught at 14, then my own years at college and graduate school; then marrying an academic straight out of graduate school, and another 21 years in the orbit of universities.

I went through a phase when I was an undergraduate at Oxford, of being thoroughly wowed by very, very clever people. And I still thoroughly enjoy them.

And what I have learned is that intelligence counts for nothing, really, when it comes to living well. It does not make you happier; it does not ensure your children are well brought-up; it doesn’t safeguard marriages. And, gallingly, unless you are focused on wealth-building, it doesn’t even make you rich!!

What matters is wisdom. What matters is kindness. And many years ago, I decided that if I had the choice, I would hang out with wise, kind people rather than clever people. I decided that kindness of the heart trumps sharpness of the brain, anyway, any day.

I feel ashamed of the smallness of my judgements, at the smallness of my heart, for my silly assessing of people as to whether they are as above average as those in Lake Wobegon or Oxford. People are not to be superficially or superciliously judged. They are to be enjoyed—and loved, if one’s little heart could stretch that far.

Intelligence counts for nothing substantive, no more than beauty does. What matters is the kindness of the heart, the culture of the heart.

And when it came to that, Annie, who kindly agreed the Wirral was in Birmingham so as not to embarrass the know-it-all foreign lady who had so confidently placed it there–well, Annie far out-classed Anita, who had judged her as slow, but had, herself, a whole lot of catching up to do.

In which Difficult People are Angels Unawares

By Anita Mathias

I read Gilead by Marilynne Robinson at a difficult time of my life, with a great deal of pleasure, awe, delight, gratitude (and envy at the perfection of her writing style).

However, I did not remember this beautiful passage which Canadian writer Carolyn Weber points out.

This is an important thing, which I have told many people, and which my father told me, and which his father told him.

When you encounter another person, when you have dealings with anyone at all, it is as if a question is being put to you. So you must think, “What is the Lord asking of me in this moment, in this situation?”

If you confront insult or antagonism, your first impulse will be to respond in kind. But if you think, as it were, “This is an emissary sent from the Lord, and some benefit is intended for me, first of all the occasion to demonstrate my faithfulness, the chance to show that I do in some small degree participate in the grace that saved me,” you are free to act otherwise than as circumstance would seem to dictate.

You are free to act by your own lights. You are freed at the same time of the impulse to hate or resent that person. He would probably laugh at the thought the Lord sent him to you for your benefit (and his), but that is the perfection of the disguise, his own ignorance of it. (Gilead, HarperCollins 2004, p. 124)

Indeed!

anita.mathias