Psalm 23

The beautiful words of Pslam 23 have at times prettified me and given me hope on some of my darkest days.
I wrote this poem just to reflect on the pslam and how important it is to me.

As I wander through the green uncut grass
the stories of the garden unfold.
Imprinted into the soil, deep dark tunnels of despair,
My burdens glistened into the dewy footprints of life
I know that I am the gardener, listening to the creator.

With every seed thats sown, I learn more of him.
When I doubt, he lifts me up, reminds me that I can grow.
He leads me through valleys that I never knew existed,
waters my soul with life giving streams, which hydrate me.
Growing in a new place, Where its safe to sit and stay.

With him I am at peace to say no words,
as he knows my every thought,
even the secrets deeply hidden in my heart.
His blessings ignites my reasons, fills my toughest day with hope.
With His spirit I know I am safe.

Humbled by the constant calling of his Creation.
His arms outstretched, always ready to listen to me.
I feel his presence through the earth. vibrating whispers of a calming voice.
Leading me tough the turbulent waters.
To a place of stillness and inner peace.

Come, Holy Spirit, Come

Acts 2:6
They were all excited, because all of them heard the believers talking in their own languages. When this sound occurred, a crowd came together and was confused because each one heard them speaking in his own language. When that sound came, a crowd quickly gathered, startled because each one heard the disciples speaking in his own language.

Imagine the excitement of being one of the crowd that day, to be included in the conversations that surrounded you.
It’s easy to presume when we read this well-known passage ( Acts 2:6) that the language they all heard was spoken.
For some adults and children, the spoken / written language is not their own language.
For those of us that are wired slightly differently ( neurodiverse ) our first language is not always written / spoken. Some of us are picture thinkers. A picture thinker is someone who thinks primarily in pictures instead of the sound of words . Those with dyslexia, auditory processing, attentions issues like ADD/ADHD are people who might be picture thinkers
For those of us that think in pictures we live in a world that rarely speaks our language. Daily we can feel isolated, excluded and ashamed of our inability to communicate with others.  We find ourselves exhausted as we struggle to read, write and function in a world that often perceives us as weird or even stupid.
Being neurodiverse means that we think and learn in a different way to other people. We often have particular strengths such as thinking outside the box, seeing the bigger picture and creative thinking.
When my dyslexic mind walks through what happened on that day of Pentecost.
I wonder how many of those stood in the crowd that day heard pictures being spoken from Peter’s words.
Peter explained to the crowd that everything had been written in the Scriptures about Jesus long before he had ever been born. He told the people that God sent Jesus to save them.
Some of the crowd that day might have seen the story of the messiah. They might have an image that represented  their own sorrow and visualised their own forgiveness.
For the first time in their lives they may have felt truly understood. A way that would have seemed impossible only hours before.
The Spirit comes as an companion, a teacher, a Guide, to be with us – to remind us who we are and to whom we belong. To strengthen us for the task of living as God’s people in the world.  It is the spirit that transforms us and weaves the gospel into our own language.  That gives us a place of peace to go out into in a world that we cannot understand.  It is only because we are understood and loved by God that we can be encouraged to let go of our fears and anxieties and walk into a world that scares us.
It’s the miracle of language. God showed himself willing to step into our individual space and verbalize a message in a language that we could understand. God showing his love to us. And maybe the greatest miracle, and the best explanation, of God happens when we take that love, given freely to us, and share it without reservation with each other.

Come, Holy Spirit, come.
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A salty unity.

Simone Weil was a French Jew who died of hunger during World War Two.
Simone was extremely well educated and came from a wealthy family.
She worked in the factories and lived on tinned rations. Simone was so affected by what was happening to others she decided to live as they lived.
Simone was drawn strongly to the sacramental life of the church . Her desire to be baptised became overwhelming to her.
Yet she declined, and spent the rest of her short life regarding the bread and wine of holy communion without ever eating them.
Regarding them was enough for her, determination to stay hungry gave her strength.

During this time of lockdown I’ve been hungry too.
Experiencing those familiar unsettled feelings often felt during the first few weeks of a new diet. The longing to find chocolate and cheese in the fridge . Only to find precooked jacket potatoes and a withered salad .
After a while you start to understand the answer to satisfying your hunger cannot be found in the fridge.
It’s about a change of attitude.
As the world endures the worst imaginable suffering . The hunger I feel pierces a bright light in this dark storm.
It’s from these pains of hunger that I take a new fresh bearing. Discovering worship in a different timeless dimension. Worship that does not start at 9.15 on a Sunday morning. Nor does it end after 45 minutes.
Worship is barren of rules, no dress code, no words. A sacred intimate place of mystery. Time stands still as struggle with the pain and sorrow . Tears roll uncontrollably as I find joy in this creative hunger.
An empty glass move my thoughts from hunger to freedom. I become more aware of my own personal rhythms of prayer. Awareness of the frailness and pain of the earth.
It’s taken me back to the story of Simone Weil. I am reminded that is important and ok to be deeply affected by what’s happening around us.
To weep each day does little to ease the pain. The tears have an energy of their own. A salty unity that partners with a overflowing love for each other.
During lockdown we have literately fed each other. Prepared meals for neighbours and friends.

Our combined hunger is woven and twisted into a strong soft blanket. A blanket that hugs me into Gods waiting arms, sharing sorrows of the world.

The alters maybe naked, the candles extinguished and the church doors locked. My spiritual diet has changed.
I’m hungry; the hunger pains are real essential and fruitful.
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Trust is visible.

Back in the early 1990’s a Uk animal laboratory went into liquidation.
The beagles they used for their research needed to be rescued. This was to be a massive undertaking, with the beagles being transported to RSPCA animal shelters across the uk.

These dogs had never seen the outside world, never walked on a lead. They had spent all of their lives in living kennels. They where regarded as a product, one that produced puppies as part of a profitable business.
Although not badly treated the dogs lacked any life skills and had no idea what a dogs life was all about.

Some of these beagles both young and old came into my care ( I was working at a RSPCA animal shelter) .
The puppies took well to their new environment.
As with most puppies they responded to human interactions. They learnt quickly from each other, finding huge joy in playtime and meal times.
The older breeding bitches, many of which arrived in pup had a long difficult journey of adjustment ahead of them.
As time moved on they slowly allowed me to love them.
To be with them as they gave birth to their puppies . Very Slowly they started to trust me.
They learnt to bark and loved the sound of their own voices. Their individual cheeky personality’s started to shine.
With a lot of patience they leant to walk on a lead, Soon they where enjoying lunch time walks along the river bank.
The beagles that arrived cowering and petrified soon started to greet meet with excitement, tails wagging.
The time came when not only did they TRUST me but I started to trust them.
All but one. LIBBY.
Libby found all this trust thing hard, she refused to walk on the lead. She was deeply sad and traumatised . The stress of the move from the laboratory kennels to the animal shelter had caused her to loose the litter of puppies she was carrying .
I often wondered if Libby could / should be rehomed. I wondered if the world even had that special family for her.

Libby was liberated from the kennels that robbed her confidence and released her into a life she could not understand.

Reflecting on the word TRUST this morning I thought of Libby and her beagle friends. The image of her sad pale face came to mind.

Reminding me how trust transformed the lives of these traumatised beagles. How their confused and dull faces, become colourful expressions of playfulness.

Trust not only transforms, but it’s visible.

When we come to know the trust of living with Jesus the changes in us can also be visible. The trust we put in Jesus enables and equips us to get through the hard times.
In the midst of this pandemic. I find myself speaking to God full of worry. I’m worried for the families that have lost loved ones. Worried about going out in a world that is full of anxiety and fear.

I’m afraid of losing our friends and family , afraid that our business won’t survive.

The moment is fearful, but in this fear their is hope for the future. The world no longer seems safe, it’s drowning and struggling to breathe. I feel it’s been struggling long before the pandemic started. The world is confused insecure and frightened .

The breathless world is still to be trusted. God still loves us. This love liberates us to live as God’s gifts to others, bringing refreshment and relief to those who suffer. And we are freed to welcome others as God’s gifts to us, receiving all the richness they can bring into our lives.

It was magical moment when Libby trusted enough to hide behind me while I introduced her to a wonderful family that would love and care for her. Except her just the way she was.

Trust is visible, we experience a joy so great that our tails wag. As we overcome our fears we learn to live out our faith to draw on the strength that comes from trusting in Jesus.


Psalm 27:5 Good News Translation

In times of trouble he will shelter me;
he will keep me safe in his Temple
and make me secure on a high rock.

Songs From The Heart.

Soil and soul.

The circle is broken and I cannot raise a tune
The fairies have left and they will not return
When the fairies danced on the land the circle was whole
And then you could raise a tune.

Words from a Gaelic song translated into English and published in Alistair Mcintoshs book soil and soul.

There’s a deep well of love that connects the tunes of the heart to our souls.
Our hearts have the capacity to feel vision, to write poetry, to raise a tune so powerful that it must be sung.
When we sing these tunes we do so with an energetic unashamed joy.
It’s so natural that I do not doubt the acoustic rhythms of my soul.
I find this fusion of heart formed notes when I cycle. The rhythm of pedalling, infuses with the seasons of my life, until a tune overflows into fully formed words.
These songs are different to the tunes we sing in church, different to the music that is played on the radio.
A tune so unique that doesn’t conform to the rhythms of life.  The songs of the heart are so much more than musical notes.
You don’t sing these notes; you embrace them, you ride into them, you feel them in your hair. They give you balance, stability and freedom.

During this huge time of uncertainty and stress we must look for the songs that unite us. To the tunes that build communities, the melodies of Gods grace .
To equip our hearts and voices our first duty is to STOP and listen to the whispering earth.

A Hungry Heart.

What is poverty?

The common definition of poverty is:  the state or condition of having little or no money, goods, or means of support; condition of being poor.
It seems that by lacking in desirable ingredients we are deficient in the qualities that make us socially acceptable.
Poverty is nearly always viewed as a negative, by admitting our own poverty we are admitting that we are failures.
So because of being on a low income the dictionary along with Government statistics would label many as poor.
But for some living in poverty is not a label they would give themselves .
As a child my father lost his job, many would have seen us as poor.
This was never obvious to me until I needed a new winter’s coat for school. The one I chose was beyond my parents means. I remember the teenage me in floods of tears as I was told I could not have a new school coat as it was not available to purchase with the school uniform vouchers supplied to my mum.
Poverty, in and of itself, is only a bad thing if it keeps someone from obtaining things that they truly need. For example, not having a winter coat.
Poverty forces us to prioritise what is necessary, desirable or luxurious. It forces the luxuries and desires to be appreciated for the luxury they truly are. In a very real way, it eliminates non-essential distractions and shows you to value the simple things in life.
You value the potato harvest from the allotment, the abundance of the apple harvest. All these gifts are seen as the gift they truly are.
It eliminates the non essential in our life, forcing us to live by what we need as a minimum rather than to live to what we want.
Of course this is not the way for many living in poverty and to some life has become so dark their is no joy in the harvest. Debt and poverty become a dark desperate way of living and seeing often with no hope of away out.

We are all called to live simply and in freedom with respect to the riches we have—whether they are in the form of material possessions, talents, time, or love.
Giving our time, sharing God’s love frees us from our own poverty. You become aware of the lack of value money can hold.

We become less captivated by the shinny things that delight the eye as we know in our hearts they are beyond our reach.
In poverty there is helplessness and dependence of our own lives in which we learn lean on Christ.
We reach to only what’s within our reach, we stretch out deep prayers that echo our deep sighs of hunger.
Each time we reach out to God theirs a reshaping a invisible prioritising of the true values of a hungry heart. We look to hidden parts of our lives, to those ordinary, ignored, forgotten and hidden parts of our lives. This is where we find God patiently for us to kneel, walk and journey with the richness of knowing “God is with us”.

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Protecting the extraordinary.

I’ve recently been reminded of the cycling adventures I had as a teenager.
Balancing conversations whilst cycling hands free and eyes closed.
I remember on one occasion my lovely friend combined hands free cycling with hair brushing. Simultaneously I combined hands free cycling with eyes closed cycling. I trusted my friend to guide me. She trusted me not to trust her when she needed to brush her hair.
Needless to say we lost our balance and wobbled into each other and we both ended up a tangled heap in the road.
I remember our laughter and tears. Both battered and bruised we picked ourselves up and continued our journeys home. Neither of us prepared to explain to our parents how we came off our bikes.
I still cycle hands free but with my eyes open. I still cycle with my eyes closed but keep two hands firmly on the handle bars.
The other evening I experienced worship which was “ hands free “.
No service sheets, all responses where said by one person on our behalf.
No words to read, or misread, no responses to stumble over. It really was a place of freedom full of love and possibilities.
This paper free service took me right back to my teenager years of hand free cycling.
It reawaken a crafted space that in its simple creation allows myself to go deeper with God.
To step back on the path of discovery, to ponder the words that echo around me drifting to a place of awareness.
A place of wordless, imageless prayer.
It’s this place that I seek when I pray. That draws me inwards to God. This place might be cycling hands free, digging the garden, or just simply sitting in my own home.
I used to believe that prayer was words. That all prayer had an audible sound, a solid firm shape. A pattern of compulsory words. Yet the more I journey the more I learn that prayer is more than words. It can be the thin places that God has gifted us. My thin place will differ to another’s. A place from which I feel the radiant transparency of love, infused with a deep moment of silence from which all unspoken words and concepts are tidal.
It’s a place I Instinctively and habitually return to. My own personal place that protects my extraordinary. Opens the doors to the most
inaccessible places on earth, weirdly these places can almost be the most accessible places of my mind.

The spirited wind that ruffled my hair as I cycled hand free as a teenager was the early beginnings of a transformative spiritual practice that would sustain me .
Two risk taking teenage girls cycling hands free, have guided each other, supporting each other into adult life.
I have realised this friendship has prepared me and helped open myself to Jesus. It opened for me a path of adventure to follow my my deepest desire.
To understand that our risk taking may end up not as planned. I think back to myself and my friend in a tangled mess of bike and bruises. The gap of silence in which our tears turned to laughter. The unspoken words from our parents when we returned home battered and bruised. Those inner words of love that are parents never spoke.
I’ve come back as a adult to the thin places that feed the gentle gap between thoughts and words, a place to rest with God.
An inner silence, a stillness reinforced by a familiar habit of searching for a deeper stillness.
The places that taste and smell of creation. A conscious return to a unconscious place. Where my imagination traces pictures that have yet formed words.
A precious rediscovered energy, a gathered moment in time that held my breath and ruffled my hair.
A physical reminder of the breath of God that breaths within me. A tactile sensation of the wind blown Spirit. A mysterious force that guides my heart to prayer. That generates a core of outwardly focused energy.
When I stop focusing on what’s expected of me. When I follow my heart I bring myself to God. Letting go of the patterns of life that dampen my imagination, the words that confuse me, letting go of the handle bars that balance and guide me.
Closing my eyes I Listen to a silent love that prepares my soul ready for a purposeful action. A risk that’s so empowering it’s wrapped in love. A love that in which ordinary people can do ordinary things.

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Why I Blog

For most of my life I told myself that I couldn’t write, ashamed of my stumbling words. I’m the person that avoids writing in a birthday card, through fear of spelling my own name wrong . ( yes that’s more than possible ).
My dyslexia holds my silent unspoken conversations . My stumbled unformed words stay locked within my heart. Unexpressed these words will eventually die. Each little wordy death takes some of my self confidence to its grave.

But then something happened.

Grief and pain that was so overwhelming I felt the only way to express these emotions was to write. The spelling and grammar just did not matter, what was important was finding an outlet for this pain.
Slowly I wrote, it was as if God was releasing all those dead words trapped in my heart. Each misspelt, badly pronounced word was finding its place in the world.
Each wrongly placed full stop, capital letter was typed up and shared on my newly published faith blog.
I am not being overly dramatic when I say that my life has never been the same since.
Something happened during the writing process that freed me from the pain of locked in words, I started to face my fears.
Each piece of writing had its own unique journey as years of frustrations were poured into cyberspace.

I don’t have what I would call natural talent. I can’t go from idea to blog in some quick effortless way. But if I take the time use and technology, I can write.
I’m am a writer.
My blogs have grown from a mumbled outpourings of grief to deep personal almost coherent reflections of my life with Jesus .
I am proud of my writing . I’ll never be William P. Young, in part because I am not. . I am Lindsay. With my own unique way of writing, which is given to me as a gift from God.

Blogging has enabled me to share how God has impacted, transformed and changed my life. Telling my story, sharing the love of Jesus in my ordinary every day.

Faith blogs are the new way to take the Gospel to the people. More and more people are turning to the online world to find answers and information on a variety of topics – including Jesus.
We are no longer bound by the confines of our postcode because the Internet makes it possible for us to connect with others literally around the planet!

My own blog “ it’s a beautiful word “ is its own little miracle because in doing it, I discovered, not what I couldn’t do, but what I could do. I stopped listening to that voice that told me I can’t do this and instead listened to the voice that said well done! With each person that viewed liked and commented on my blog came a sense of pride.
I had a voice… and .I would quickly learn that this voice came responsibilities.
Comments, messages and emails from those responding to my writing was a overpowering beautiful privilege, one that I could have never foreseen.

Today I see myself, not as someone incapable of writing, but as a wobbly voice, sharing the wonders and beauty of creation . God has once again helped me to see myself as I truly am, a gardener of creation with a gift to tell and share my story. To teach others the joys and treasures to be found in Gods beautiful garden.
Each blog is a tiny fraction of who I am, but each blog is a source of joy, and of pride, for in that moment I discover what it means to share the love of God to the listening hunger world.

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Emotional Nesting.

My life has become filled with Nine different journals, coloured pens, books, leaves twigs and wool. Journaling, painting leaves, cutting and sticking are all outlets for an emotional creative energy. An energy that’s remarkably intertwined with cleaning!
I’m preparing and waiting for something new.

I’m behaving totally out of character. One strange behaviour this week is ironing. I’ve surprised myself at how much time, care and love I can put into ironing .
My clothes remain creased, possibly more creased than before they where ironed. BUT I have ironed my clothes, Un-neatly folded them and placed them carefully away.

It’s not just the iron that has been subjected to this emotional energy. I’ve cleaned parts of the cooker my cleaning cloth has never reached before. Extreme vacuuming has become the norm .

The Emotions flying I around my body are so overwhelming I clean, cook, write, create and crochet. In preparation for something new: ‘ I’m nesting ‘.

This nesting instinct is preparing a nest for what every God has planned for me.

Nesting is also for learning to embrace the gifts God has given me today and learning to understand the decisions that have and will been made.

Nesting is learning to trust that God is at work behind the scenes birthing and creating something new in my heart even when I don’t yet see it.

Nesting is calming.. as a draw crochet and create my mind wonders to prayer.

Fear can drive me to some very unhelpful places, but faith waits and this journey takes time.
It takes time to build an emotional nest.

Learning it’s limitations, finding a space to creatively ponder with the new before it even arrives .
I am rooted and grounded in Gods love and I know that what ever decisions are made this month ‘ I am loved’.
I am turning the page to a new chapter and finding the space to nest and rest… I need this time!

Paul says, “Consider your own call”.
1 Corinthians 1:26
“Brothers and sisters, God chose you to be his. Think about that! Not many of you were wise in the way the world judges wisdom. Not many of you had great influence, and not many of you came from important families”.

Reminding me that my calling is unique, my gifts are unique. My calling is uniquely me.
I’m building my own colourful emotional nest. Constructed of pens. paper, words and wool.
I’m going to stay here a while taking the time to rest and create something uniquely beautiful while preparing for others to consider my calling…..

My nest is seasonal
When it’s time to fly…. I will leave my nest behind.
I might fly in the wrong direction.
I might even fall.
But..
God is faithful and will guide me.

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Germinating an Adventure of the Imagination.

We believe in an obedient, realistic and informed orchard.
A fruitful place where the word of God is alive and active.
Strong roots silencing the whisperers of self doubt.
Obeying the formational changes etched in our bark .
We lay our hearts open to love.
No matter what.

Grown on the rootstock of my forefathers.
I am seen and cultivated world wide.
Purposefully cross pollinated.
Persistent and Versatile.
We are the diverse family of Malus.

Before you could articulate my name .
My seeds where firmly placed in your hand.
Germinating an adventure of the imagination.
Growing without end.

Under our knotted wooden frame,Merlin received the gift of prophecy.
I am a symbol of poetic immortality.
A ping of peace.
On the twelfth night it is customary to wassail our elder .
Blessing the fruit, that’s yet to come.
Yet I know that God works in me.
He has called me according to his purpose.

Blown by the Holy spirit to the marginalised forgotten orchards.
I am called to sow seeds that will bloom and blossom.
To dance quietly in the deep pink scented snow.
I cherish and work within nature’s limitations.
Creatively discovering spaces to share the story of Jesus.

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