L is for LIVERPOOL

He was a saint and he scored the winning goal, with a diving header, near the end of the first period of extra time. I don't recall much else about the game but I remembered Ian Saint John and I never forgot his team. It was May 1st 1965, the FA Cup Final, a tournament I had only discovered a year earlier when a West Ham team, containing the soon to be famous Bobby Moore and Geoff Hurst had overcome Preston North End and a young number nine called Howard Kendall.But my destiny was never to be wrapped up in the claret and blue. Instead the all red, even on a black and white television, inspired me and I became an instant fan. That Liverpool team was made up of four Scots and seven English and their opponents, Leeds United had the only foreign player on show, Albert Johanneson who was also the first black player to appear in the final.

After that triumph and the following year's league title, my new found heroes kept me waiting for another six years during which I unashamedly shed tears on more than one occasion.Yet I remained faithful, for that great Messiah on Merseyside, Bill Shankly, said the good times would return and, more importantly, his players believed him. By the time of our next league triumph in 1972, I had acquired my first Liverpool, all red skip. Not , you understand, like the replica kits that fill our sports shops and club stores today, but a plain red jersey, almost matching red shorts and eventually a pair of red socks. By the time, mum had finished sewing on the badge that could be bought separately, I was more than ready to face the world, which at that time consisted of a few friends and a kick-about at the local youth organisation. But I was proud to wear the badge. I had no number and no name on my back, but I was every player except the keeper at some stage in the match and I had outgrown the skip long before it had got tired of me.

Nothing in sport beats the thrill of seeing the mighty Reds. Not even revision for a university exam the morning after the first European Cup triumph. Endless and lengthy phone calls to secure tickets, hours on motorways in the middle of the night, sea sick ridden journeys on overnight ferries and more recently, the continuous taunting from the not so friendly neighbours up the M62 and their clan of followers. All these and more count for nothing when another trophy is hoisted. And the names Shankly, Keegan, Paisley, Dalglish, Souness, Hansen, Rush, Gerrard and so many more all conjure up another little memory, another triumph and cement my love for the club even more.

But great as my heroes are, and wonderful though the triumphs have been, they all pass and like every sporting team or hero are soon confined to history. And they don't compare with the thrill of knowing Jesus, whose presence never dies and who is always faithful. He is the real Messiah and He has said that He will return and, more importantly, I believe Him. Paul , in his letter to the Christians at Philippi, says, 'I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things.' And while in this life, we continue to be 'imitators of God', some day when this covering has worn out, I'll get the real skip from the Captain himself.

L is for LOCKED

I knew the moment the door slammed behind me, exactly where the house keys were. I could see them through the window. But we were all outside and they were not. I would have rung one of my sons on his mobile, except the eldest was only four and he hadn't , as yet, got his first mobile, mainly because nobody had got their first mobile. Also, despite numerous warnings that I might find myself in this exact situation, I hadn't left a house key with my parents, so the level of sympathy was not going to be extremely high. Still, they had a phone, so tail firmly between the legs, I trundled up the road, mumbled what had happened and made my escape into the hall to make contact with the outside world - our local joiner to be exact. He was over in a flash, not so much instant but more slowly exposed and after surveying the possibilities, decided that entry through a bedroom window, which he had made for the house, was more favourable, and more easily repaired, than breaking down the front door, which he had also made. In little time, we were inside, keys recovered, thankful appreciation given and received and the crisis was over.

A few latecomers were just settling into their pews, the choir and the minister having already taken up positions, when the door opened again and number one son arrived in my seat. This was a bit of a shock as I had been informed that the rest of the family were giving the Friday night Harvest service a miss in favour of a visit to the grandparents. But he wasn't for staying and didn't intend to leave on his own. 'I knew the moment the door slammed behind me,exactly where the house keys were. I could see them through the window,' she said. So could I, as this terrible sense of déjà vu crept over me. Yet I was even less prepared than before, for now every window had extra security locks and they had no intention of being persuaded to open. The fields were already ploughed and the seed scattered and the audience were being fed and watered by the time the soft refreshing rain encouraged us to come up with a solution.So I phoned a friend - our other local joiner, to be exact. He was over in a flash red van and after surveying the possibilities, decided that of our fifty-fifty options , a night in a tent was more favourable than breaking down the front door. Still, we didn't give up and not long before the breezes and the sunshine, we managed to 'fish' the keys, which had fallen near the door, through the letter box, thankful for all the good gifts around us, and a length of copper piping.

I often think of the precautions I had taken to ensure that my home was secure, to keep out those that would try to gain entry dishonestly and yet, because of a moment of carelessness, I had found myself on the wrong side of the door. Nor had I heeded the warnings and it happened again. I know that Satan is alive and well and always seeking to unlock our relationship with God and even when we feel at our safest, he is waiting to pick on our moments of weakness and try to put us outside God's love. But rest assured for ,' He who fears the Lord has a secure fortress, and for his children it will be a refuge.' (Proverbs 14:26). When we fear God, there is no need to fear Satan and the door will remain firmly locked.

L is for LONELY

We watched her from across the room as she sat alone, with only a Cappuccino for company. Her clothes revealed wealth but her blonde hair concealed the years she had lived. An occasional glimpse through the window, interspersed with sips of her warm coffee hid a thousand thoughts, but I guessed she was probably lonely, in a place full of people she didn't know. When a friend eventually arrived, her insistence in paying for her welcome guest, suggested that she was more comfortable in company than alone.

He lay at our front door for two weeks, only stretching his short legs to circumnavigate the house or inspect the trees on the lawn for intruders. His appetite was minimal and his soil-covered nose indicated that most of the dog biscuits I gave him were buried under a bush at the top of the garden. He had been my mother's dog,now inherited by my sister and in her long absence on holiday, he had found the lack of human company to much to bear, so he found some to ease his loneliness. When she returned, he left again as quickly as he had arrived.

I used to ring home from university once a week. And even though I returned for the weekend, my midweek call was always welcomed with a voice full of happiness. Sometimes, circumstances would bring me home during the week or at least earlier than usual and I knew that they were glad to see me and hoped I would stay a little longer. After I got married, I still visited mum and dad most days, sometimes only for a short while, but I soon found out that precious time can never be counted in hours and minutes and that short section that I managed to find in any day was an oasis in their increasingly lonely lives.

I know, because now I see things from the other side and while our lives are busy with work, church, friends and each other, I can never deny that sense of loneliness that comes when the family leave home. The long winter evenings, the tidy house, the silent piano, the full fridge and the quietness. Yes, the quietness is the hardest part.

Yet loneliness is not an exclusive club. It is a worldwide illness, from the destitute orphans and homeless of our overpopulated cities and disease-ridden countries right down to people like us who, in our solitary moments, send out a text on our mobile phones in the hope that someone will answer. I have felt that isolation, those moments when you are totally alone with your thoughts and little else. That first day in a new class or in a new job, sitting alone in a cafe or restaurant, walking in the fields, closing the door for the first time in your new flat, driving alone late at night, pensive in a celebrating crowd.

Jesus understands our loneliness, even though the word is never used but his promise in Matthew's gospel of, 'I am with you always, even unto the end of the world,' assures me that I am never alone. He also tells me, ' I will pray the Father and he shall give you another Comforter, that he may abide with you for ever.' And His Spirit is with me now as I write this on my own. It's good to always have friends in such high places.

L is for LEOPARD

He lay, almost lazily, in the sun and though he seemed disinterested, his eyes never seemed to leave me. His body was a velvet skin of pale yellow covered with a blackish rosette pattern, though his underbelly was, surprisingly, much whiter. His large paws lay stretched out in front of him and he had whiskers to die for. And although he looked as playful and inviting as our pussy cat, experience had taught me otherwise. I knew he was dangerous, his family history doesn't lie, but I wasn't afraid. He seemed equally at home lying haphazardly on an Acacia tree branch or moving stealthily, through the thick undergrowth, blending into the surroundings like he wasn't there. And he never uttered a sound, a silent stalking killer choosing his moment for action. Yet I remained unperturbed, for in truth, watching a wildlife programme on television leaves you somewhat removed from reality. Indeed, seeing through the eyes of a camera lens was my only experience of leopards for they are not particularly prevalent in our zoos or safari parks. The commentator told us how strong they were, how they preferred a diet of small mammals but were not immune to the taste of gazelle and other larger prey and occasionally, when food was in short supply, attacked humans. He told us how they were mainly, but not completely nocturnal, how good swimmers they were and how acute was their sense of smell, sight and hearing, how they lived solitary lives and could remain undetected, even within a few feet.

All of which was more than a little disconcerting when I came face to face with my first leopard in the flesh. It took more than a few minutes to detect him, lying, almost lazily, in the sun, looking disinterested for his camouflage was perfection itself. I guessed, from what I now knew, that he had already picked up my scent and heard my approach, confirming what he had seen in the distance. Yet he made no attempt to move, his tail flapping slightly around some stiff scrub grass in the same way our cat would do when slightly displeased. I presumed he wasn't hungry, though the land rover in which I was sitting with six others had probably deterred him but no more than the ranger riding with the loaded gun on the front bonnet. We circled him, from the safety of our four wheeler, at times no more than six feet from danger, but he never budged, save for the ever moving eyes that kept us under constant surveillance. I felt fear, of the unknown, of what I did know and of what he knew. Only air and a leopard's leap separated us and I wondered how quickly a ranger can use a gun.

God uses the leopard to illustrate that we are helpless to remove our sin when he speaks through Jeremiah to say, 'Can the Ethiopian change his skin or the leopard its spots? Neither can you do good who are accustomed to doing evil.' Yet Jesus can change the hearts of those who appear farthest away from the kingdom, for Isaiah prophecies that , 'the leopard will lie down with the kid.' I have never seen a leopard lose its spots and wouldn't trust one with a young lamb but I have seen God change people whom I never thought would embrace his love. You can't hide from Him when he comes looking for you!

L is for LITMUS

I thought it was magic because he told us so and it certainly was very convincing. We all sat on the high stools, like toddlers waiting to be fed, huddled around a big glass bowl, waiting expectantly for something to happen. 'Today, boys, I'm going to show you some magic,' said Mr. C. We were already drawn into his ruse, eating out of his hands, a captive audience ready to applaud his every move and take every word he said as gospel. Our ears were open, our eyes were bulging and he sat there, on the other side of the bench, in complete control, like he had done this a thousand times before. He was an old gentleman, at the wrong end of his career for us but probably just right for him, full of grace and understanding and a personality that seemed to sit uneasily with the strictness of the regime that had been his workplace even before my uncles had attended the school. And he taught Chemistry in a manner that showed his love for it and made us want to embrace it in similar fashion. Not everyone saw him in such a favourable light and there were those, especially among the boarding pupils, where he was a house master, who had felt the sting of his words and his cane but I only ever saw the magician at the front of the lab, who conjured up an interest in all things scientific and made me realise that what he believed could be infectious. Within a year, however, he was gone, attracted more by the Isle of Man and his immediate retirement than another year with his magic wand.

''Are you ready?' he said and we responded with a slight shifting on our high chairs, a few nods and expectant grins. The liquid in the bowl was a deep blue colour. As he lifted the beaker of clear liquid, which he had never said wasn't water, but in our ignorance we assumed it to be, he spoke softly, with a slight gravelly tone, a legacy of his penchant for pipe tobacco. 'Now watch carefully,' As if we wouldn't! As he poured the clear liquid into the bowl, amazingly the blue colouration began to lighten, first turning a purple shade and eventually a deep red. Open mouths and wide eyes and a few giggles filled the room but as quickly as we had been sucked in, we were spat out again as the wonders of the effect of clear hydrochloric acid on blue litmus were explained in great clarity and the magic had gone.Still, I never forgot the lesson and some years later performed the same sorcery for a junior science class on my first teaching appointment.

When Jesus pours His Spirit into our lives, the change is just as radical, for Paul tells us in his letter to the church at Corinth that, 'if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has gone, the new has come.' Let us always show that change in the way we live, the things we say and the thoughts we have and remembering that 'wisdom brightens a man's face and changes its hard appearance.' (Ecclesiastes 8:1) And when others notice it, that's the real litmus test.

L is for LOVE

I love chicken. You can serve it roasted, barbecued, deep fried, pan fried, a la Kentucky, grilled, poached, stir fried, boiled, braised, on a spit, with breadcrumbs, batter, skinless, in a sauce, in a soup, on bread, on toast, on pizza, on crackers, in a bap, with salad, with rice, with chips, hot, cold or even lukewarm and I'll eat it. Like I say, I love chicken, but I wouldn't want to marry one!

I love rugby. Scrums, lineouts, rucks, mauls, tries, drop goals, scissors, switches, crash balls, spin passes, crunching tackles, flying wingers, great goal kickers, cheeky scrum halves, natural fly halves, All Blacks, Lions, Wallabies, Springboks, Ireland, Ulster, Armagh and wherever my son plays. Like I say, I love rugby, but not as much as when I played.

I love music. Playing guitar, writing songs, hearing harmonies, watching musicians, LPs, CDs, iTunes, Kim Carnes, Michael W Smith, U2, Bob Dylan, Ryan Adams, Johnny Cash, Mary Chapin Carpenter, Shawn Colvin, Bruce Hornsby, Amy Grant, Fleetwood Mac,Jim Reeves, Elvis, Raymond on the church organ, Roy playing jazz guitar and, of course, the wife singing! Like I say, I love music, but I listen to it less than I once did.

I love sitting outside. Fresh air, sunny days, panoramic views, reading the paper, waving at passers-by, wondering at strange cars, birds singing, forty shades of green, cows munching in a nearby field, dogs barking, tractors growling, houses in the distance, planes passing, clouds drifting, rivers flowing, rabbits playing, cats stalking, dogs sleeping. Like I say, I love sitting outside, but I can see most of it from the living room.

I love Liverpool. League titles, FA Cups, League Cups, EUFA cups, European Cups (three more than Man U ! ), Super Cups, Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley, Roy Evans, Kenny Dalglish, Robbie Fowler, Alan Hansen, Ian Rush, Ronnie Whelan, Stevie Gerrard, Bruce Grobbelaar, Jamie Carragher, Anfield, European nights, the Kop, You'll Never Walk Alone. Like I say, I love Liverpool, but if they lose I don't shed a tear any more.

I love my sons. Births, colic, sleepless nights, baby food, first steps, first word, changing nappies, hugs, pushing the pram, birthdays, anniversaries, starting primary school, playing football, going to the cinema, holidays in Portstewart, Disneyworld, Sunday dinner together, proud sporting days, developing talents, Christian faiths. Like I say, I love my sons and I always will.

I love God. Not in the way that I love rugby or chicken or music or Liverpool. I love him because He first loved me and I had given Him no reason at all to be so considerate. And even when I have shown no gratitude to Him, He still loves me - no strings attached. And because I understand how much He loved his son whom He sacrificed for my sins, I love Him even more.So when I use the word 'love' carelessly, I remember what real, unconditional, self-sacrificing love is. Like I say, I love God and He always will.

L is for LESLIE

He lived in Canada for all of my life and I only saw him in the flesh three or four times. He was my mum's oldest brother and had gone to seek his fortune in a far away country, shortly before she married. Yet there was nothing prodigal about him, either in his outlook on life or the manner in which he lived, for he simply didn't see his working or leisure future around the picturesque Mall of Armagh and the surrounding countryside, still recovering from post Second World War syndrome. And while the timing of his departure was, in many ways, inappropriate, with the impending family wedding, there is never a right time to say goodbye and children never see such partings in the same light as their parents.

For years, he was the uncle I never knew, except in a handful of worn, black and white photographs that mum kept in an old album and a few large, glossy pictures, which I would see occasionally when I visited my grandmother, that portrayed him in action at his workplace. But his Christmas cards continued to arrive and were always signed, simply, Les, in his distinctively large and artistic script. Often, they contained a letter that would bring everyone up to speed on the details he wanted to tell and what he thought we needed to know. Then, one day, unexpectedly, news filtered through that he was coming home, albeit only for a brief holiday, to see his mum and dad for the first time in nearly twenty years. I wondered what he would be like, what stories he would tell and if I could communicate with someone over forty years my senior.

After his arrival celebration, with the fatted calf and all its trimmings, and when all the introductions and formalities had been completed, I got to know the real Leslie of the black and white celluloid stills and wasn't disappointed. All the good qualities that mum had remembered in him were still there and the years had simply accentuated his attributes. I was immediately attracted by his inviting, infectious smile, his relaxed attitude to all things and his concern to not be a burden on all around. I was transfixed by his stories of ice hockey games, his developed love of the Toronto Maple Leafs and all things Canadian, by his constant chewing of the red, cinnamon flavoured gum and by his willingness to always 'go with the flow'. We played football when he came to the country and he had lost none of the skill that had made him an ever-present in the Armagh Whites team and he introduced me to fishing, even buying me a rod and explaining the basics. Sadly I never pursued his promptings, though for a time after he left, I read avidly the ice hockey programmes and magazines that occasionally landed on our doorstep.

As the years passed, he returned several times to the homeland and when he eventually married across the ocean, we all knew that he would never return on a one way ticket. Sadly, illness was to rob us prematurely of a brother, uncle and friend but his legacy lives on in the person we knew and in the poems he wrote about home that reminded us all where a little corner of his heart had never left.

I don't know much about the childhood or teenage years of Jesus and I guess there were many days that weren't that exciting as he lived with his mum and dad, brothers and sisters in Nazareth. There is an opinion among Bible scholars that his dad may have died when he was relatively young and along with his appearance at the wedding in Cana, the site of his first miracle, suggests that he attended both weddings and funerals and experienced emotions of sadness and joy. It was only in his later years that I got to know Him and the picture that my Sunday School teachers, CE leaders, ministers and mum had painted had prepared me well, but when I met Him, I found so much more that he wanted to tell me and give me. And He says, 'I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.' When you're with Jesus. you're never far from home.

L is for LANGUAGE

Prior to my arrival at big school, the only 'foreign' language that I knew, beyond those words spoken in our own neighbourhood, when something went wrong, were from a young African teacher, who had arrived in our village as part of her educational training, as she shared some of her home life with us. My experience of other tongues was therefore limited to the few phrases she taught us and the overseas presenters of the Eurovision Song Contest in the days when Sandie Shaw sang barefoot. So it was rather a shock to discover that I was actually going to learn some of these languages as part of my schooling. Like most new students it all began with French, as my bearded and bald teacher tried his best to persuade our class to behave and also to learn how to conjugate verbs, but failed miserably on both accounts. By the time I had reached my third year, he had been replaced by another bald teacher and I began to think there was some correlation between languages and the follicly challenged, when from somewhere, he produced a ukulele and taught us all manner of French song, including the National Anthem, which I now sing passionately, if somewhat quietly, along with their rugby team on Six Nations afternoons.And there was more going in than the words of the songs because by the time he had left, I was more in love with Le Francais than at any time before or since. After that it became a mixture of learning to pass an exam and translating the exploits of Maigret, a poor Frenchman's Sherlock Holmes.

In the intervening period, I was force fed Latin for three years, initially by the bald, bearded one and later by the chief rugby coach, so I made some attempt to show a passing interest in Romulus and Remus and Carry on up the Tiber etc. But deep down all of us had worked out that Theology and a life hidden under ministerial robes and a white dog collar was probably not the way forward and the rugby coach was more concerned about our future scrummaging skills than our future tenses so Pompeii became buried under a river of other, more pressing interests and within a short time, the Roman Age had died out.

But that didn't stop the school trying again. This time we were bombarded with Greek, just in the vain hope that one student might tread the narrow road that leads to all things clerical. The bald, bearded one was nowhere in sight now, but this new language presented problems all of its own. It had similarities with Latin, which was now proving useful, but it also had its own set of strange-looking letters, complete with English pronunciations and I quickly discovered that what looked like the letter P to me was in fact the letter R and pronounced Rho (as in row) in this strange tongue. So, for two years, we all struggled with the wishes of our alma mater and our teacher struggled to come to class at all, while recalling the exploits, after translation, of Jason and his Argonauts, the Golden Fleece and the Minotaur and we were some way to planning our escape from Cyclops when Pegasus arrived and carried us into fourth year.

It may seem strange now, but the first words I remember in all three languages are J'aime, amo and luo, which in my native tongue translates as 'I love'. And yet in another way ,it's maybe not so strange at all for the language of love is a common one and the language of God's love for us is easily remembered. They say you can't give what you don't have and John clearly agrees with this principle when he says.'Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love.' As I develop my faith, let God's love fill me so that I can speak his language and love others through my words. C'est la vie!

L is for LAWNMOWER

I have a 'love-hate' relationship with my lawnmower. At the moment we're in love. The fact that it is only four months old has probably something to do with it, but there are many other positives. It always starts first time, has a cut width of 22 inches (that's nearly 56 centimetres to post-imperial kids), is easy on petrol, lifts grass when it is slightly damp, is not too heavy and its engine does not possess the decibel level of a pneumatic drill. I have tried to impress its qualities to my sons in the vain hope that they might like to enjoy them for themselves but to date they seem content to take my word for it and watch from afar.

It is the latest in a long line of lawnmowers that have passed my way. The original had no engine and never broke down, except when dad, my sister or I wilted, but it was sufficient for the job, though hard and lengthy work. As the lawn at home increased in size to include some of the rough grass around the house, fewer family members were volunteering for the job and the little cylinder mower was replaced by the fashionable Suffolk Punch, complete with powerful four stroke petrol engine and grassbox. It had a cutting cylinder in front of a large roller , which left delightful designs on the lawn and I vaguely recall having to engage a rotating flywheel to make it move forwards.However, its cut was narrow and the box held only a small amount of grass and it was less easy to manoeuvre around shrubs and flowerbeds. Still, it did the job perfectly well until its performance became less predictable and the lawns continued to grow in area. The Flymo, which replaced it, had two big advantages. It had a wider cut and had little difficulty reaching the parts that other mowers can't reach. So, for years, my flat friend and I hovered around the garden, up and down steep banks and across rough terrain, turning anything that resembled grass or weeds into lawn. It had no drive but was not hard to persuade and could be pulled or pushed with equal ease, its rotary blade doing all the hard work. Yet the grass lay where it had been cut and, if not raked and collected, left the garden more unsightly than before.

Progress, old age and the desire for a better looking lawn, brought two further mowers into the garden. The first, bright orange and flashy, lasting only a couple of years before I realised that appearances can be deceptive and the second, a bright blue Yamaha that worked harder than it was meant to and only recently has retired from active duty after over a decade of service. I know almost every cog, nut and bolt in its frame, every sound that makes me suspicious of its state of health and although, more than any other, it has caused my 'love-hate' relationship, it has been invaluable over the years.

Over the years, spending time with other Christians, especially those longer in the faith, has also been of lasting benefit in my spiritual growth.We are all different but, like my various lawnmowers did, each has a part to play at a particular time and often God has sent the right helper and the right word just when I needed it most. And spending time with God is the only way I can know more about Him and recognise when He speaks to me. So I am forever encouraged by Paul who wrote, ' I keep asking that the God of our Lord Jesus Christ, the glorious Father, may give you the Spirit of wisdom and revelation, so that you may know him better.'

Initially my new lawnmower seemed much slower than its predecessor but after two hours of mowing, because of its wider cut, it takes me no longer than before and I realise that it is just right. Often in my impatience to see His will, I have forgotten that His work in me is ongoing and His timing is always perfect.

L is for LANE

The old house was only a ruin, three walls partially remaining and rectangular holes once covered by glass. Inside, grass, weeds and cow manure hid mounds of bricks and stones that had fallen from their intended place. It was hard to believe that this rubble had once been a home, full of the busyness of family life, where visitors called regularly and sat talking long into the night. By the time I was born, they were all gone and I only had my dad's stories to paint a picture of what had once been. The house sat above the sharpest corner on the lane, a tiny country road, less than a mile long, which would become part of my life and my memories. During the week, familiar faces travelled to and from their homes by car, bicycle or on foot while others, whose land lay along the edges of the lane, would visit by tractor or occasionally horse and cart. At the weekend, it became the traditional route for worshippers at the local church, which stood on a hill at the far end. And so it was that I got to know almost everyone who travelled along it, as they passed our home, the first or the last house on the lane. Like so many other side roads, it looked after itself and the green strip of grass that had developed along the centre, where wheels rarely sat, was testimony to its state of forgottenness. At one stage, encouraged by the increasing volume of traffic using the road and probably by the complaints received, the local council, in their wisdom, chose to widen it sufficiently to allow cars to pass, but the level of concern for maintaining their handiwork all but disappeared, so that nowadays, the road is again one lane wide with the once new tarmac now lying beneath a grassy verge and the centre masked by a newly formed green band of grass.

But other things have changed. Hedges have been replaced by wooden and concrete fences, stone walls and chestnut trees have disappeared in the interests of progress, orchards have gone, been replanted and have gone again, stables and byres have given way to silos, large cattle houses and apple stores and, across the fences, small fields have been joined together into larger areas. Yet the greatest change has been the people, for almost all have gone so that now, our family lives alone on the lane. Yes, farmers still drive their tractors and increasingly large machinery along its length, the church is still busy and many others have incorporated it into their exercise route but no longer does the postman deliver to McClelland, Davison, Ashton, McKeown, Perry, Simpson, O'Hagan, Carson and the host of ministers who occupied the old manse as the remains of once family dwellings begin to tumble or disappear completely.

I have walked the lane thousands of times, behind prams and buggies, toy tractors and more lately, hearses. I have travelled along it on bicycle, lorry, tractor and car. I have journeyed with friends, met neighbours and travelled alone with my thoughts. I have seen many changes and heard about others but regardless of what has taken place beyond its edge, the lane remains the same, is no shorter or longer than it has ever been and always leads to the same place.

So much may have changed over the years but I am refreshed to know that, 'Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.' The God of Adam, Moses and the New Testament is the God whom I serve and He alone is the way to heaven when He says, 'I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.' I'm enjoying the journey for I know where the road leads!

L is for LPs

It cost me about £2.40 and I played it nonstop that whole afternoon as I gazed at the album cover. On it was a picture of a person, whose age was not readily clear, teasing a bright orange coloured cat with a fish skeleton and above the picture, two words, Cat Stevens. His music was neither offensive nor revolutionary, but he wove beautiful pictures through his thoughtful lyrics, melodic tunes and acoustic sounds and I fell in love with it. By the end of the week I knew all the words and most of the chords and passed endless afternoons, crooning out my own pale imitations of 'Moonshadow' and 'The Wind' on an old 12 string guitar. And so began my love affair with the LP. For the next fifteen years or so, much of my hard earned pocket money was donated to support the careers of both fledgling and established musicians as the LP collection grew. I loved the covers, the album information and increasingly, the lyrics sheet inside. But they had their drawbacks. The background noise of the stylus on the vinyl, the 'jumps' when the needle encountered a blocked groove or someone touched the record player and the inconvenience of trying to reposition the 'arm' for a repeat play. Yet by far the greatest annoyances were the 'scratches' on the vinyl surface that no amount of doctoring could completely remove and the effect of a hot sun that would forever alter the flat nature of the disc. Many nights I have watched Arlo Guthrie spin around on my turntable as the stylus arm painstakingly negotiated a series of hills and valleys to ensure that the sounds I heard were pleasant to the ear. And an old Amy Grant album remains an unplayable museum piece after an unnamed son discovered great delight in the scratching sound that came out from the speakers when he dragged the arm to and fro across the brand new lump of rotating vinyl.

When the CD arrived, like most LP enthusiasts, I was initially curious but wary, yet as the price became more competitive and the attraction of a remote control with all its facilities began to dawn, I soon found myself, like many others, ignoring the stacked album shelves and taking more than a passing glance at the small silver discs. Until, eventually, there were no LPs to buy and I was converted. Anyway, you can't take an LP collection on holidays! In recent years, I have begun to delve back into that old collection, partly because so much of the music was innovative and has never been bettered but also because each album has a story to tell of a particular point in my life and with it, a host of past memories. Mind you, it's not all good, but much of it is better than the endless supply of tuneless meanderings that are served up on our radio stations today.

That's why I adore many of the old hymns, so often discarded in our modern worship, but so full of words that touch my heart and breathe of the living God. Hymns such as 'Amazing Grace', 'My Jesus I love Thee' and 'Great is Thy Faithfulness' that express spiritual emotions and experiences that no modern writer could convey any better. And while I love our new songs, our new methods of worship and our song writers who articulate their faith in words and tunes that I both understand and enjoy, I am forever drawn back to the simplicity of 'The Old Rugged Cross' and the hymns of my childhood.

It's no coincidence on my very first LP, I should find that beautiful old hymn, 'Morning has Broken', written back in 1931 and rescued, by a pop star, from obscurity for the whole world to enjoy. In all our worship, let us praise the High King of Heaven who is still our Vision, our Wisdom, our Battle Shield and Ruler of all.

L is for LABRADOR

I bought him in a hurry, one of several brothers and sisters,which he would never see again and which, at least to my untrained eye, he appeared to forget about fairly quickly. He was a Ballymena puppy, born into a world of farm buildings that he rarely saw, except when the door opened at feeding time and then he would have glimpses of what lay beyond from the comfort of his straw bed and his mother's soft fur. And how she disapproved of their parting, the beginning of a family breakup, the loss of her first son, leaving to make his own life, the acceptance that others would follow and the realisation that things can't stay the same for ever. I felt sorry for her and slightly ashamed of what I was doing, but at that moment my need was greater so her cries for justice and a rethink fell on deaf ears. Anyway, her owner was a Presbyterian minister and I was sure that he had already given much prayer to the situation and reflected on the parable of the Prodigal Son before deciding that a minister's monthly pay packet could never support two families. I had met John some months previously at a church event, in Belfast, where he was speaking and we were the musical preface. Afterwards, over coffee, somehow the subject had moved from the Bible to dogs, though Jezebel had never been mentioned, and before we left, I had logged away the phrase 'Labrador puppies' and his phone number for future reference.By the time our paths were to meet again, he was now a minister out in the country and living in a rented farmhouse, near the M2. As we bundled the golden furry bundle of legs into a cardboard box, said our goodbyes and headed for the nearest intersection to the south, my feelings of remorse had almost vanished to be replaced with assurance that I had done the right thing.

Mum and dad had lived alone for a couple of years now, their only companion being a faithful Jack Russell terrier, who answered, not surprisingly, to the name of Snoopy and had become their surrogate child. When, dad found him lying lifeless on the road one morning, their grief was tangible in the days of mourning that followed. In my haste and desire to help comfort them in their loss, John's name came to mind and, a phone call later, we were heading for the motorway on our mission to unite a puppy with his adoptive parents. Their initial reaction to his arrival was somewhat underwhelming, if unexpected and initially I began to doubt my powers of discernment as they struggled to see how anyone could ever take the place of their recently departed best friend. Days turned into weeks and gradually their preoccupation turned from bereavement into bewilderment at how quickly a Labrador puppy can grow, how large an appetite it has, how it is non-selective in what it chooses to chew and how much fun it is.They called it Bruce in memory of a quiet black predecessor that poses vaguely in my archives. His coat was golden and smooth and his temperament was equally pleasant to the eye and he spent his days lying at the back door, playing with my two young sons or just basking in the morning air and being a soft pillow for another young Jack Russell puppy who arrived on the scene some years later. And he loved to roam, through the fields, along the roads, meeting up with friends and going for a swim in the local river. Often he would disappear for hours, only to return when his belly was empty and his dish was full, much like the lost son and like the dutiful parent, mum welcomed him home without a harsh word. Until one day, he didn't come back. We enquired from neighbours, searched the fields, the lanes and the pet sanctuaries. We even tentatively asked local farmers if any dogs had been caught , chasing grazing animals, but he was nowhere to be found. Then, some weeks later, he wandered home, rather sheepishly and lay down at the back door. His coat was longer now and rougher and for someone who had possibly been scavenging for food since his departure, he was not undernourished. Occasionally, he seemed reluctant to come when I called and was more impatient with the puppy and the children. As days past, he remained distant and more nervous than before, until we all began to realise that this was not Bruce at all but another stray Labrador looking for a home and when we began to lose interest, he moved on again, in search of a more permanent existence.

Jesus warns us against impostors of the truth when he says, 'Watch out for false prophets. They come to you in sheep's clothing, but inwardly they are ferocious wolves,' and also 'Watch out that you are not deceived. For many will come in my name, claiming, 'I am he,' and, 'The time is near.' Do not follow them.' Many will be deceived so keep looking closely for the signs that give them away.

L is for LADDER

We had three ladders at home. The longest could reach to near the top of the tallest building on the farm, which was our hay shed, but it was a precarious climb, not for the faint-hearted and the delicate appearance of the structure coupled with the concrete yard below meant that while the heart was willing, the flesh was weak. It was a wooden ladder, more used to being rested against an apple tree and time had not been kind with several rungs now missing near one end and its aging wood now stained by an explosion of colours that had dripped from paint brushes during one of its alternative jobs. And there was something disconcerting about the foot long piece of timber nailed to one side to strengthen where a large crack had now appeared. And yet it provided endless hours of fun, not in the vertical role for which it was intended, but when draped horizontally across an old tar barrel, as a more than adequate seesaw.There were, however, one or two minor drawbacks. Sometimes, the barrel, being circular, had an inclination to roll in rhythm with the rising and falling, causing the ladder to regularly alter its central position, although a couple of strategically placed cement blocks went some way to solving this problem. Though a much greater source of worry and painful discomfort where the scalps of wood that often embedded themselves deep in uncovered legs and other more sensitive areas. But by far the greatest crisis was when there was nobody to sit on the other end of the hastily constructed fairground attraction and the fun stopped before it had begun.

The other two ladders, both wooden and altogether more sturdy in build, were much shorter, but when fitted together as their creator intended, formed a safer and ultimately longer climb. The metal clasps which secured their union and the steel reinforcements under many of the rungs meant that only a fear of heights could deter prospective climbers. Now, they all lie redundant and frown at the bright, shiny and ultra-light aluminium pair that are preferred for the most menial of tasks. I have climbed all of them and my level of carefulness certainly increases as I move higher, though I always dread the rare moments when someone steps on to the rungs below my perch.

And isn't that how God has intended we live for him, not as individuals but joined together as part of the body of believers, with his arms of love and authority firmly clasped around us, and us in obedience to his direction. And when circumstances change, he finds a new use for our talents in another field.

But a simple warning to us all. It is easier to pull someone down a ladder than to pull them up. Let us not allow Satan to get a foothold on even the lowest rung of our lives or we may never reach the top. And I hear the view is worth seeing. 'To him who is able to keep you from falling and to present you before his glorious presence without fault and with great joy.' (Jude 1v24)

L is for LEARNING

I didn’t attend the school of learning of travel writer, Pete McCarthy, where the teachers used the carrot and stick method of persuading the pupils to learn, without the carrot of course, but I do remember my teenage years being filled with images of caning, hair pulling, backside kicking, arm hitting, shouting, sarcasm and ridicule, all designed to encourage me to retain large amounts of irrelevant information, most of which lie dormant in my brain, never to be used. What I did learn was that as we students grew older, taller and stronger and took longer to shave than our teachers, such methods became of less use to them and they began to try to make their subjects interesting enough for us to want to learn. I think everybody benefited. It had certainly been a shock to the system, coming from a cotton wool enclosed cocoon of a country primary school, where my teachers lovingly adhered to the ideal of 'in loco parentis' and everything we learned seemed almost to have happened incidentally. By the time I was ready to leave such comforts, I had already discovered the secret of learning was forever intertwined with my level of interest in a subject and so, before I was halfway to thirty, I was an expert on all things related to pop music, soccer and The Beano. For hours, I would sit and study trivia about Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky , Mick and Titch (if you remember them, you're older than you thought) or memorise the FA Cup Final teams and I always had a soft spot for the trials of the Bash Street Kids and, perhaps not surprisingly, most of that useless information is still fresh in my head, if ever so slightly crumpled. It is therefore hardly surprising to learn that, as I've grown older and other issues have tickled my interest taste buds, I don't even know the names of all the members of Coldplay, can't recall who played in last year's FA Cup Final and don't know if Gnasher is still alive.

But I still want to learn. About people, about other cultures and far away places, about how aeroplanes fly and computers think, about my ancestors' lives and those of my sons. About my former school friends and past teachers (though not all of them), about gardening, French, Spanish and Italian and about how to cook exotic Asian dishes.

Yet most of all, I want to learn more about God, about his majesty, his love, his grace, his salvation and his plans for me. And as my desire to learn more increases and I find more time to study his Word, so also does my interest and hence my learning. Jesus, the great teacher, tells me in Matthew's gospel to, 'Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls.' and in those words I find my inspiration.

I had planned to progress through my writings in alphabetical order but in the sleepless hours of an early morning, I learned,unexpectedly, that this was not God's plan. Oscar Wilde once said, 'To expect the unexpected shows a thoroughly modern intellect.' I'm not so sure but I do know that with God, the more I learn about him, the more I wait in expectancy and the more I expect to learn.

A is for ARTHUR

Arthur's voice was rasping and bore the hallmarks of overuse. His language was colourful and often new to the ears of a ten year old and I never saw him dressed in anything other than his working clothes. Most of our encounters took place either before the sun got dressed or after it had gone to bed, but even in the shadows, the stocky figure with the coarse greeting could not be mistaken. For years, his lorry had carried dad's cattle to the market for sale and on many early mornings, the growl of the engine coming up the lane was my alarm call into action. He was a busy man, with other farmers to placate on market day, something he was keen to remind us about ,so more often than not we rose earlier than the agreed time and after dad had picked out the leavers in darkness, where they all looked the same colour, we would herd the small posse on the road and wait his arrival. On those days when he would return with newly bought animals, the street lights would already be burning and often the evening news would be over, but he was still the same cheery Arthur who regularly defeated the morning sun. In later years, as his business and his own son grew, and a second vehicle took to the road, we saw less of him, except in glimpses through his offspring, until dad called it a day and the lorries came no more.

Arthur lived close by. He had a soft, measured voice and spoke words that reflected his experience of life. His garden was colourful and he tended to it with care and commitment, but years of arthritis had ravaged his hands making any creative activity painful and long.His father had worked on our farm before I was born and though we were neighbours, I lived more in the era of his sons and daughters. But our paths rarely crossed, for we shared the same God but not our religions or cultures. And amidst the Troubles which dominated everyone's life, our friendship was maintained from afar, with the occasional wave or greeting, but little else. He was a keen sportsman and historian and worked hard for his family until pain dictated that he must call it a day. In his latter years, I got to know Arthur in a new light as we both seemed to have more time to talk and had less suspicion of other cultures, but almost before any lasting friendship could blossom, he was fighting a battle against a more sinister disease from which there would be no return.

Arthur first appeared on my horizon in the post flower power days when it was in vogue to have at least one round 'Smile, Jesus loves you' sticker on the front of your Bible. His clothes were colourful and American and he spoke English in a style that I had only ever heard on television. And he carried a cross. I saw and heard him speak twice. First in my local town, when everyone under the age of twenty seemed to have congregated in the Presbyterian church to check out this strange celebrity. Then, several years later I watched him drag the cross into the old Olympic stadium in Berlin, pronouncing freedom in the shadow of a commemorative plaque containing the name of a J Owens. His cross was twelve feet high, weighed just under three stones and his burden was eased somewhat by a small inflatable tyre attached to the bottom end of the structure. I had forgotten all about him in the intervening years until the wonders of the web informed me that he still carries the cross, has visited all the continents and, among other facts, has walked over 37,0000 miles. Now sixty seven, he has still no plans to call it a day.

Three men, linked only by name, but so different and they teach me something I'll never forget. I share the name Christian with many born-again believers and often I am at odds with how their lives reflect that title. Yet others, I am sure, find similar difficulties when I fail to measure up to their standards of what a Christian should be and do. And that's when I remember my three friends. All different, but all still Arthur. For God has given us individuality to express our love for him. Jesus offers me the best advice in how to deal with others when he says, 'Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother's eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?' and also, 'Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.' That's why I'm going to live as I think God wants me to live and let him be the judge. After all, Arthur means to be courageous!

A is for ALMOST

"You're almost there!" I shouted, as Davy frantically alternated between forward and reverse on his jeep controls, but even as my encouraging words dissolved in the morning mizzle and despite his best efforts, subconsciously we both knew that it was a losing battle. When finally the wheels began to spin constantly, the engine grew louder and the hedges seemed to be growing higher, we knew we were sinking. And to think I had almost declined his invitation to visit his farm, he had almost taken his usual route and, when we had forsaken the firmness of the hastily constructed, and almost, but not quite, finished, stony lane, I had almost said, "Are you sure this is wise?" It was almost 10:30 in the morning and just over the distant hedge you could almost count the cattle in the neighbouring field. We rang Gary, who is almost never away from the farm but who almost didn't answer and when he had stopped laughing, he agreed to come and tow us out. Still the fresh air would be good for us though we were left to experience it from the confines of the driver and passenger seats as the now obvious large puddles and very recently excavated mud all around, left us prisoners in our own jeep.It was a large tractor, almost new and almost too close to us and I almost got the electric window closed in time, but not quite. We were almost drenched in a brown liquid that we had helped to create and I almost said a bad word but by this stage Gary was laughing uncontrollably so we just joined in. The thin rope that was chosen to lead us to firm ground didn't fill me with confidence but we were almost starting to move before it chose the most inopportune moment to snap, and in a place where it could no longer be joined. I almost gave up hope as we searched for an alternative and by the time Gary returned with an altogether more sturdy lifeline, we had almost used all the tissues in the box to clean the mud -sprinkled dashboard. I almost cheered, though as a guest it might have seemed inappropriate, as we sailed through the surrounding hidden waters and moored on the stony lane once again. The whole drama had taken almost two hours but it almost never happened.

Our lives are all filled with 'almosts', those 'nearly, but not quite' moments that sometimes we regret and sometimes, I assure you, we celebrate their happening. The almosts that avoid inconvenience, confrontations, failures or even tragedy and the almosts that don't.

The Bible is full of almosts. Jonah almost went to Nineveh, Joseph's brothers almost killed him, Abraham almost sacrificed his son, Zacchaeus almost didn't see Jesus, Peter almost didn't deny him. But by far the saddest and yet most remembered 'almost' is King Agrippa's reply to Paul's oration when he said, 'Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian.' There is no historical record that this 'almost' ever became 'altogether'.

I almost moved to a different letter today, I was nearly ready, but not quite. I'm altogether more happy that I didn't. I'm almost finished. Almost persuaded? Not quite enough!

A is for ANTIQUES

My friend makes his living through buying and selling antiques. I don't know how he does it, but it works. His shop has been in the village for as long as I can remember and was already a thriving little business when his mum was the sole proprietor and down the years it has lost none of its charm, for there is always a hearty welcome for any prospective customer or friend who drops by. People come from all corners of the province and often further afield to view the merchandise, for the shop is well known and respected amongst the antique buying public. Often, on a Saturday afternoon, cars boasting registration plates alien to the area, rest patiently by the kerb, awaiting the return of a satisfied smile that suggests a successful and sought after purchase. And on those days, when the doors are locked and the showroom slumbers silently, Billy and his white van can be spotted on any number of different roads, seeking out attractive additions for display. Often that search takes them both beyond the shoreline for several days as they delve into the treasures on the mainland and return with something a little bit different, that they know won't stay on display for long.

I have never had a consuming interest in antiques, though I can appreciate the skill, craftsman ship and no little time involved in creating some of the masterpieces I have viewed. And all in an age when machines and computers took a back seat and man's imagination, ideas and learning were transmitted directly through his hands with all the care of handling a new-born baby. Yet, in an age where we are always wanting to have the latest electrical gadget, the software update, next season's fashion, the most recent car registration and the newest holiday destination, we still long for a slice of the past, and will pay to own it. Haven't we realised that it's second-hand at the very least? That's why I've thought of keeping my car for a long , long time, in the hope that it will be eventually classed as an antique and maybe one of my descendants will sell it and claim their fortune, but I doubt it!

When Jesus called his disciples, they had no time to consider their past but left immediately to follow him. Likewise, he also told another prospective follower who wanted time to say goodbye, that, 'No one who puts his hand to the plough and looks back is fit for service in the kingdom of God.' And through his death and the new covenant of his blood, no longer was there any need to look to past sacrifices for cleansing.

I know Billy and his mum have always sold great antiques, but in their pleasant, friendly manner and the quality of their stock, they have always ensured their future, as few customers fail to return again and again. But with God, our future doesn't depend on our past and there's no time like the present to find out.

A is for ACCIDENT

As the last of nine concrete posts disappeared under the bonnet and the family car eventually came to a halt my first thought was not of the damage I had done, nor indeed about the welfare of my passengers but how did it happen? And in the eerie silence that seems to accompany the first moments which follow, I recalled my last action had been to turn and check that dad's seatbelt was properly connected, but in turning my body, I had also pointed the car in a route that led to grass, a sturdy fence and the field that lay beyond. Nobody was hurt, but dad bore the mental anxiety for some time as he pondered the immediate future without his necessary transport and the financial cost that I had never considered.

It was several years before I would experience that silence again, though there is little one can do when your parked car sees another slide towards it on a snowy, winter evening and there is little consolation to be found in the fact that you are the innocent victim when the inconvenience of the aftermath sets in.That was not to be the last time I would experience metal colliding with metal, though as my speed now rarely exceeds my age, I seem to have avoided such moments in recent times. I say this with some hesitation as I know at any time it could come back to haunt me. However, I don't intend to continue this speed / age collaboration much beyond my ninetieth birthday, except possibly on motorways!

Yet, as you know, the picture is much darker than I have painted, for my own mishaps have been trivial when compared to others and I have lost many friends and acquaintances in unforeseen incidents, many not involving any vehicle but all classified as 'accidents' and every one leaving the emotional scars that time does little to heal. How often have those words, 'if only', floated about in your head and found no resting place. How often have you watched the news, scanned the teletext or read the newspaper to find another home torn apart unexpectedly.

This week, my memories resurfaced as David recounted his own incident while travelling in Africa just a few weeks ago. As he shared his thoughts of those long seconds between leaving the road and impact, his certainty that there would be no happy ending and his unwarranted feelings of guilt that he had emerged with only shock but his colleague still lay ill in hospital, he simply said, 'You know, with God, there are no accidents.'

And as I pondered those words afterwards and thought of all the scenarios that we gather under the umbrella of 'accident', I began to realise that he was no longer talking about 'an unintentional happening that usually results in harm, damage or loss' but in fact was thinking about 'any event that happens unexpectedly, without a deliberate plan or cause.' And then I understood that he was right. With God, there are no accidents, though many of his plans may seem unexpected to us. How interesting then that 'accident' is never mentioned throughout the Bible and only a few times as part of the word accidentally, in the the context of unintentional but 'plan or plans' appears over seventy times. So when Jeremiah writes, 'For I know the plans I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future,' I have all I need to know. And remember, God didn't bring you to this page by accident!

A is for ALZHEIMERS

I watched him, sometimes from afar but often closer than I wanted to be. Many times I saw his struggle to maintain a level of normality, if not within himself, at least to the outside world. I felt his frustration as something beyond his control slowly began to strip away his confidence and compromise his dignity. Until his world became a hidden place behind a closed door, an impenetrable wall, a world which nobody else was able to share, a secret room where he sat alone with his thoughts. Occasionally, among friends or family, he would peer from a slightly opened door and we would catch a glimpse of the person we had once known but just as the hope of a reacquaintance became a possibility, he would retire back to the security of his own mind and our role would again be reduced to that of onlookers at a film premiere, waiting to see a familiar face emerge from the crowd. Yet how we loved those precious moments and how, as time passed, we came to cherish them more and more as the door was opened less and less. And while, in those final weeks, days and hours, it is possible to find some comfort and relief in the knowledge that the struggle is almost over, it is always slightly coloured with unnecessary guilt that we could have done more and a degree of frustration about the trauma that life threw in our path. And with what are we left? Memories of the early days when a misused word or a forgotten name were more likely to raise a giggle than a concern. When a change of mood could be accounted for by children leaving the family nest or the inactivity of retirement. When the topic of conversation became monotonously similar and when the usual hearty welcome became little more than a nod of acknowledgement. When the talking died, the eyes became distant and loneliness existed even in a crowded room. Yet, in truth, I really never knew how he felt inside for by the time I wanted to ask him, he could no longer tell me. I guess, maybe, amidst all his frustration, there were great moments of happiness that remained locked away. Of precious daughters, respected sons-in-law, adored grandchildren, a loved lifelong partner and all the memories of better days.

But I also learned that no family has a monopoly on suffering and the pain, shock and sadness of loss soon arrives at another door to be greeted with the same sense of bewilderment. Yet Jesus never said that life would be free from trouble though he did promise to be there when it happened when he said, 'Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.' And Paul, writing to the Christians at Corinth, praises the God 'who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.'

As I take a backwards glance at what is now history, my God is not one who always heals, who always answers what I pray for , who always shields me from trouble or who always prevents the bad days. But he is always there. Remember that.

A is for ATHLETE

God may have been generous in the gifts he gave to me, but the body of an athlete was not one of them, my frame being more suited to the rigours of a rugby match than exposure to a long, straight track down which I was meant to travel as fast as my legs would carry me. My 'career' in athletics was not to be the road to fame and fortune, nevertheless it was not without a total lack of success. My initial confidence was built at an early primary school sports day when victory in the sprint, across the local football club pitch for a distance some way short of one hundred yards would be followed by a further triumph in the egg and spoon, before the days of blutac. Further achievements in the blue ribband event and intermittent success in the sack race were enough to guarantee that I moved to secondary school, with more than a little hope of adding to my trophy cabinet. Alas, it was not to be for I soon discovered more finely tuned athletes than myself, all of whom exemplified the Olympics motto of 'faster-higher-stronger' and what's more, were all prepared to train to be even faster, higher and stronger. Still, mine was not a totally hopeless case and I soon realised that, for any athlete, when winning is beyond possibility, you then compete against yourself to improve what you've done before . So, with all the enthusiasm of a football team striving for a play-off place, I kept going, first in the sprint, then diversifying into the long, triple and high jumps, before attempting the hurdles, but my stride pattern was seriously hampered by the shortness of my legs and the exasperation of watching others move further into the distance. By this stage, I had already persuaded mum to part with a few pounds of grocery money so that I could own a pair of 'spikes', essential footwear for running on grass. I had also hastily constructed, in the front garden, a high jump, consisting of lengths of baler twine from the hay shed, tied together and attached to a couple of reasonably robust fencing posts that dad hadn't noticed to be missing. There was no landing mat except for the hard ground but I reckoned that the height of the 'bar' would never leave me with too great a fall, should I manage to clear it. And despite the lack of ideal conditions, it served the purpose well. Until the day, after creating a new personal best in front of three dogs, a cat and a pet rabbit, I somehow managed to land with one of my spikes embedded in my other ankle. I think the pain, the blood, the horror on mum's face and subsequent days off school,finally convinced me that cricket was a more sensible option during the summer term!

Paul, writing to the Hebrews, says, 'let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles, and let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us.' The wonderful thing about this race is that everyone who keeps going until the end, wins the prize, not just the fastest, highest or strongest for there is no favourite in God's race, just runners with their eyes fixed on Jesus. Don't be discouraged if you see others ahead of you nor deride those still behind. It's only about how YOU finish, so keep running.

A is for ANNECY

"Why not go to Annecy?" Graham said, " You'd love it there." I wasn't so sure. After all, if it was so wonderful, why had I never heard of it before now. Still, based on the fact that my learned friend had known to be correct in the past, I went with my gut feeling and his recommendation and took the plunge. So I began to surf, something which I had always wanted to do since I first saw the Atlantic breakers in Portrush, but now could do in the safety of my own home without any fear of drowning and before long we had pictures, maps, hotels, flights and everything else we needed for the perfect holiday. As the school term drew painstakingly to a conclusion, I longed for peaceful evenings by a French lake, sipping coffee in a little cafe, chewing over another lazy day's events in a romantic restaurant and listening to my wife use her second language to communicate with the locals. And then as the time of our departure grew closer, I began to encounter many others who had already been to the little town nestled on the shores of the lake, from which it had taken its name. All the reports were more than favourable, echoing Graham's initial encouraging words and I soon even discovered that it had been the subject of a BBC Holiday programme, thus our anticipation increased by the hour.

They say that expectations are difficult to live up to, but the town and its lake at the foot of the French Alps had no difficulty in exceeding our hopes. It was a little piece of heaven, where the sun shone, the lake shimmered and the locals and tourists blended in one harmonious mix of colour and tranquility. And we did all the things we had dreamed of doing and more, as life returned to the slow, easy pace that has no room for the stresses and impatience of the modern world. We were set free, to enjoy the beauty of a snow -capped mountain, the purity of clear, still water, the majesty of an eagle soaring across an open expanse and even the music of a field of cowbells as their owners grazed in the fading sunlight of an alpine evening. And I wondered, why had noone told me about it before? And then, of course, I knew. Nobody likes giving away secrets.

Jesus made no secret that he was preparing a special home for all who believed in him when he said, "In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you." He knew how wonderful a place it was going to be for he had been there already and there can be no greater recommendation than that. You know, I had my own vision of what Annecy would be like and despite all the explanations and pictures, the reality was completely different and so much better. As I read Revelation 21about that special place we call heaven and am reminded that crying, death and pain are no more and that God will live among his children, I am excited that the most colourful image I can create will never do justice to the real thing. Don't keep it a secret!

A is for AGE

"Quel âge avez-vous?" asked my teacher. "J'ai douze ans," I replied. That may have been the first ever French phrase I uttered and certainly the only time I had to reveal my age in a foreign language. Age had dominated my life long before I was able to count up to twelve. During my first year, a variety of nurses and doctors had been sadistically plunging needles, initially into my soft bottom and then as my age rose and my tolerance level dropped, using my left arm as a pin cushion, all the while assuring my mum and yours truly that it was all for my own good, which it probably was. By the age of four, the daily rigours of a formal education in the sandpit had kicked in and through a progression of blocks, bricks, paintings, sums, words and nature rambles, I suddenly found myself at the age of eleven, to be kicked out again and told to go and join a big school. Well that's a rough paraphrase of what happened. Somewhere in the middle of this learning curve, at about age eight, I was overtaken by a fast travelling piano and, having climbed aboard at my mother's 'request', I was taken on a wild ride of torture for at least six years until I was old enough to jump off with only minimal injury to mum's plans. The landing was certainly softened by the fact that I had grabbed a guitar around the halfway point of my torment and mum saw a greater future for me accompanying my sister's singing on a six string wooden box.

Yet age continued to be predominant factor. Representing a school team required being under twelve, or under thirteen and by the time year fifteen arrived, it was the beginning of external exams. By sixteen, tractor driving was legal and a year later a faster set of four wheels was within reach. Still, nobody set an upper or lower age limit when it was OK to look at some of the young ladies who lived in another land,beyond the stone walls of our all boys' educational establishment. As I watch my own family grow up, age continues to be at the forefront of their lives and in this modern world, eighteenth and twenty-first birthdays are landmarks which seemed to pass with a lot less celebrations than they now demand. For many of us, those milestones beyond twenty one are viewed with much greater trepidation as we move into a new stage of life and watch those who follow, deal with the demands that age makes upon them in much the same manner as we did. I suppose halving clocked up a recent half century, it is comforting to hear countless referrals to fifty as the 'new forty' but if 'life begins at forty', I start to wonder what I did before then and what I've been doing since. And as I watch sporting stars discover that, sooner or later, skill is not enough to compensate for the march of time and remark that it is now a young person's world, I am quickly reminded that it always has been but that age also carries the bag of experience that youth is only beginning to fill.

And God, the Ageless One, who has been there from the beginning ,often used those, such as Abraham,Sarah,Jacob,Moses and Elizabeth, who were later in years, to do his work, a thought which encourages all of us to remember that with Him, there is no retirement age.

Returning to my introductory French, I have always been intrigued by the fact that the literal translation of my answer is in fact, "I HAVE twelve years.' A quick and very approximate calculation tells me that by the age of fifty, if we have managed to give God one hour every day for at least forty of those years, we have spent only about two years of our lives devoted to him. For many, I guess that would be an extremely generous estimate. Not much return for someone who gave his whole life for us! How many years have you? And how do your sums add up?

A is for ASHES

Every night in our home, shortly after the late news bulletin had faded on the radio, my dad would begin the ritual of removing the ashes from the old Wellstood cooker that had taken centre stage in our kitchen long before my sister or I had grabbed our parents' attention. It was a simple enough task, since all the ashes conveniently fell into a rectangular 'bucket' that could be removed by attaching it to the hooked end of a poker. The ashes, still hot and smoking, were taken outside and sprinkled in an area where they would cause neither obstruction nor an unsightly vision to visitors. And so this routine continued, long into my late teens until they discovered oil on the farm, which arrived by lorry and was stored in a large tank that was more unsightly than any mound of ashes. Alas, the old Wellstood,no longer of any use, was ripped out unceremoniously and in its place soon stood a bright new oil-fired cooker. Nothing much changed.There was certainly less dust around the kitchen and the floor area close to the cooker required less washing and dad was still able to perch his legs on the rail at the front of the cooker while reading the paper from the comfort of his armchair, safe in the knowledge that he could listen to the late news and then go directly to bed.But the heat level remained the same. Though most people could only remain in the kitchen for a short time before escaping to the relative coolness of the pantry, mum and dad, particularly in his later years, seemed comfortable with the equatorial temperatures and slightly bemused at the reddening, exasperated expressions of others.

I continued the ritual, to some degree, after I was married, though removing ashes from an open fire was an altogether more difficult task and fraught with worry in the hope that no trace was dropped on the new carpet or rug that adorned the living room floor. On one occasion, I made the mistake of emptying the warm ashes into a plastic bucket and leaving it oustide. Shortly afterwards, a bright glow on a very dark night, outside our back door grabbed my attention and I grabbed a bucket of water to extinguish a small fire that had taken hold and spread to the neighbouring plastic coal bunker. When all had calmed down, alongside a larger pile of wet ashes, a sizeable hole in the bunker became an eternal reminder of my foolishness. Now, I don't light fires in the house at all, except for the occasional candle, but my love for gazing into hot coals and dancing flames, in moments of pensiveness, has resulted in the arrival of an outdoor chiminea this summer, so that on a more irregular basis and entirely dependent on our unpredictable weather, the ritual has started all over again and small mounds of white, powdery ash have begun to settle in far flung corners of the garden.

We often associate ashes with bad times and death and on many occasions I have stood and listened at a graveside to those words, 'ashes to ashes.' There are many biblical examples of how ashes became part of the ritual of mourning and Job is a fine example of someone who, in his frustration and sadness, 'sat among the ashes.' But the Israelites also used ashes as a form of purification or cleansing, (Numbers 19v9), before Jesus became the ultimate sacrifice for sin.There is something very final about ashes but, as I found to my cost, a breath of fresh air can often relight a fire. Let God breathe new air into us again and rekindle our flame.

A is for AEROPLANE

Flying seems to be one of life's great necessities of the modern age, drastically reducing the time we take to get to any major city and also making the world a smaller place. Airports are such busy places with aeroplanes constantly landing and taking off and sometimes I wish I could view the earth from space, just close enough to be able to see the hundreds of planes and thousands of passengers in the air at any given moment, just to get some grasp on the complex airways of our skies and the brilliance of air traffic controllers. When I was young, the sound of a plane overhead would send me rushing into the back yard and I would search the skies diligently until I could spot a faint fuselage reflecting the sun's rays in my direction. It was some time before experience and my Science knowledge helped me to understand that light travels more quickly than sound and soon I discovered that scanning ahead of where I heard the noise always brought the plane into focus more clearly. Nowadays, I'm still fascinated by the passing of an aircraft over my house, especially those that have already begun their descent into the international airport and are low enough in the sky to allow me to identify the airline, but in any given morning, ten or more planes might cross our home on their flight path so it is a less momentous event and often amounts to little more than background noise. I've never been totally comfortable with flying and I don't think that it is genetic, though my dad would 'never have been caught dead in one of those things' and mum left her couple of flying experiences until most of her life had been spent on safe ground and an abrupt end in a plane crash would have seemed less untimely. Almost every passenger at some stage, has had an aeroplane experience they would rather forget but love to remember in vivid and occasionally exaggerated detail, during conversation. And the list is endless. I've never been present for a highjacking or thwarted attempt, an unruly or physically aggressive passenger, a severe illness on board, or even a plane malfunction but I have experienced a near miss during landing, plenty of turbulence, less than pleasant cabin crew, meals that remained untouched, bumpy landings, and passengers in the next seat that would be unlikely to make my Christmas card list. And I'm always slightly uneasy during the safety procedure explanation when the announcer begins with those famous words, 'In the unlikely event of....'. Maybe it's because I've seen too many unlikely events happen in sport and aren't most accidents unlikely events anyway? I presume it's meant to make me feel at ease, but I can't help thinking that, in the panic that would ensue, I could never follow procedures, no matter how well intentioned. And I've yet to see a plane load of survivors bobbing around in their inflated life jackets, blowing whistles and shining torches.

But in all my years of flying, I've never seen the Captain. The voice that I hear through the loudspeaker, telling me where I am, what height I am, how fast I am travelling, how long I have left belongs to an invisible person who has got me this far and will bring me where I want to go. Now that's what I call Faith.In his writings to the Hebrews, Paul says ' Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see,' and continues throughout chapter 11, to remind us of how some lived out this faith in practice.

Someday, I hope to go into the cockpit and meet the Captain and his crew. But until then, I'll just rely on the fact that I know he's there and is in full control. Have a good flight!