S is for SAFFRON

Mum and Dad were brought up on plain cooking. Dinner on any day of the week never veered too far from the straight and narrow, with potatoes being the main performer, usually, but not always accompanied by some form of meat and a vegetable. Dad loved his potatoes but needed them always to be 'balls of flour' and not 'bars of soap'. Indeed a poor potato could completely ruin his enjoyment of dinner and he would sit there and pick through any other offerings on the plate before pushing it all to one side, showing his disgust without a word but his frown said everything. Mum was less fussy and it didn't help that she felt one potato tasted much like another. Some days potatoes were the only dish served up and along with some scallions, salt and butter mashed together as champ or at other times with small slices of raw onion, it tasted as good as anything served in the finest restaurants. Only on Sunday did the spuds get to take off their jackets as the rigours of a busy Sunday morning involvement in church meant that dinner required cooking beforehand so that dad could cope with sitting down to lunch only an hour and a half later than normal. On the rare occasion mum would cook chips but this became a more regular, once-a-week event as they got older and something they looked forward to with relish. Apart from the odd dollop of Colman's mustard with his beef or HP sauce with his bacon, dad wasn't a sauce person and needed no other additive to make his meals tasty and enjoyable. Mum knew this well so there was no need to dress up the food and give it a fancy name for there was always safety in routine and the familiar. The closest she ever got to using any form of spice was a little clove in an apple tart or a stock cube in a pot of soup, but everything always tasted wonderful just as it was intended. On a few rare occasions, mum could be persuaded to sample the odd Chinese delicacy that we brought home but Indian was a bridge too far and any other national dish was out of the question. Beyond home cooking, Dad's taste buds only ever stretched as far as the local chip shop.

I remember visiting a restaurant in Bournemouth and the waiter gave us a little jar of Coriander seed as we left. However the jar gathered dust for the next twenty years until we saw the light. But I think it was probably curiosity as to how other nationalities added flavour to their dishes that made us begin to experiment with spices, either that or the spice rack that a good friend had given to us as a wedding present. It began as a dash of mixed spices in the chicken stuffing but gradually we began to discover the delights of fresh garlic, basil and ginger though getting the concentration correct in any dish often requires a bit of experimentation and a few disasters along the way. Now the kitchen cupboard houses a wealth of flavourings including paprika, cumin, coriander, lemon grass, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme (and I'm not even a great Simon and Garfunkel fan!). The latest additions have been some cardamon pods and pilau rice flavouring and, of course, saffron.

I was amazed at how only a little of it absorbed by a large pan of rice can create the most beautiful rich yellow grains that one usually associates with paella. I was even more amazed how only a little of it can cost so much, so there's a great need to use it sparingly. But I was equally amazed to discover that this extract from the crocus, which looks like long orange threads, appears to have medicinal and healing qualities.It made me consider that when I think I am only one voice and can't make a difference, that God certainly doesn't think so. Bible history is littered with the one voices who added something special to the lives of those around them. I think of Moses, Joseph, Isaiah, Daniel, Jeremiah, Jonah, Paul, Peter and John the Baptist who not only enriched the lives of the people of their time but continue to do so through the writings that have preserved their existence for us to absorb. It encourages me to think that they weren't special people but God made their lives special in the way He chose to use them. It doesn't take much to make an impact but saffron only has value when it is used and where it is added as intended. Are we ready to be used? I think it's time to take the plunge and make a difference forour Lord. It mightn't always be easy but it will be colourful.

S is for SEASONS

Early this morning, the sky was clear blue with a beautiful shimmering redness just above the horizon. Across its expanse was a criss-cross pattern of trails left by moving aeroplanes, that turned from fluffy white to soft red as they passed beyond the view of the naked eye. The grass had a silvery glaze covering and my car windscreen was covered by a thin, hardened film of water telling me that the season was changing and that there would be many more such mornings in the weeks ahead. I had already begun to noticed other changes too before this more dramatic shift. The grass, once requiring mowing every six or seven days had not noticeably grown much even after two weeks, leaves were hiding the tarmac on the driveway, the central heating was creeping on for most of each evening and darkness was invading earlier in the day. It occurred to me that maybe we live our lives more by the seasons than by months for I can recall the time of year when many things happened but I can't remember the exact date. Also I find myself tending to group things that happen according to the season. For example, apples, harvest services, Hallowe'en, fireworks, a final garden tidy are all autumn things whereas Christmas, snow, carol services, new year, are reserved for winter. Then, Easter, flowers, animals back in the fields, fertilizer and seed sowing happen in spring while holidays, sports day, lawn cutting, barbecues, tennis and hay making appear in the summer.


At home the back door was rarely closed during the summer and, unless Wimbledon was on the box, mum and dad were outside most of the time, painting or tidying or, in their later years, just sitting on a couple of chairs, enjoying the fresh air and viewing the countryside. But in autumn and winter the door was firmly shut, the curtains pulled and everybody settled in the kitchen for the evening centred around whatever was on TV or in the local newspaper. We also had a ring board fastened against one wall and often would have a game of 'rings' before the late evening news on an autumn or winter night. The board had about eight or ten hooks, behind each of which was a number. The object was to throw a thin rubber ring on to a hook and so score some points. I remember dad always threw his three rings from wherever he was sitting or lying and he rarely was beaten. A variation was to throw the rings on to the floor that had a pattern of small blue and red tiles. If a ring was not completely on one tile, no points were scored and it took considerable skill to float a ring, with the right amount of pace so that it came to lie where it was intended. It's funny, but the rings rarely saw the light of day the rest of the year.


Football happened in all seasons, before or after dark and meal times were pretty consistent too. Dad liked his dinner at exactly a quarter to twelve and tea sometime around four thirty in the afternoon. I think that's was because, he started pretty early in the morning and of course, that also allowed him to fit in supper before bedtime. Church was pretty routine all year and Sunday dinner never really veered off roast beef or chicken, regardless of the temperature outside.
I've never stopped to consider which season is my favourite. Obviously the summer has its advantages, with the long holidays, hopefully warm weather and the chance to relax outside late into an evening, but it also seems to be the time of year when most things need to be done around the home. Spring is always eagerly anticipated because it's the time when most people seem to emerge from their winter hibernation and when the air is filled with birds singing and the field s with farmers working but the birds often leave their mark on our conservatory, the lawn mower, lying idle all winter won't start and for most years of my school and university life, it meant that the exams were getting closer.


By autumn, work's routines are well bedded in, the night sky is clear and often lit up by fireworks, trees are a myriad of beautiful shades but windy nights, cold mornings, and wet fields are always around the corner. And even though a crisp winter walk in the snow, Christmas, school concerts, new year and resolutions all play their part, the countryside is barren, the days are so short and we're not even half way though the school year! Still, when I talk to my friend in Australia and he tells me that all their seasons merge into one long summer, I realize that I'm pretty fortunate to be able to enjoy what each brings to my life.
Jesus created the seasons for our pleasure and during the year, we remember Him at Harvest time, Christmas time and Easter time, but we don't really have such a celebration during the summer. You know it's important to remember more than just His birth, death and the good things He gives to us, for He's there for us in all seasons, hot and cold, dry and wet, happy days and sad days, at work and on holidays. It's an all year round experience with Jesus and He's more than just the reason for the season. And whether you are in the spring, summer , autumn or winter of your life, there's never a wrong time to have His friendship. Sprinkle a little season to your life!

S is for SEPTEMBER

For teachers, September and inevitable are uncomfortable partners in the same sentence. As the sun sets on the last dregs of August, the lengthening shadows of a new term begin to settle overhead and you tend to become resigned to your fate. Now before you start to become irked by another moaning teacher, let me say that I've heard it all before. The long Christmas and Easter holidays, only working until three o'clock, starting at nine, a break at Hallowe'en, more days off in February and all the bank holidays that everyone else gets. Why even one of our governors talks about how things are done in the real world! That, no doubt, wouldn't be the world where you constantly try to motivate at least twenty members of the public at the one time in front of you from nine until three, when a good percentage of those faces are motivated by anything but work, where lunch break sometimes extends to almost ten minutes and where the opportunity to work without the freedom of interruption, like most people experience, only begins after they've gone and remains open-ended. Still, someone has to teach the real world's children. But enough of this moaning.

I actually like the start of a new school year in September, when all those new uniforms dander in through the gates that have been close for two months, linked to their mummies and sometimes daddies. It's the season for digital and video cameras, son's first day at primary school, daughter leaving home for the first time on her own. And they all look perfect angels! Inevitably (there's that word again) there are quite a few tears, but usually after mummy has stopped crying and the P1 teacher has managed to assure her that she will take good care of her little darling, the big people who shouldn't be there can be ushered out the door, waving goodbye and leaving a trail of water drops all the way to the car park. The children? Well they mostly just get on with it, having waited over four years to get to school, nobody is going to deny them an education whether it be in the dressing up corner, the sandpit or with the Lego. So as the month wears thin, visits to the classroom by Mr. or Mrs. parent become less and less, secure in the knowledge that 'in loco parentis' also means going the extra mile. For my part, I get to know the new faces when they arrive for lunch in the dining hall and can often recognise a resemblance to a brother or sister further up the school, but I probably won't have much more real contact with them until they arrive at my door seven years later wanting me to complete their primary education. But with each passing year, it seems only a short time ago that they were entering through the gates for the first time.

There are so many new things to get used to in those first few weeks. Routines to follow, new friends to make, the school bell, bigger children in other classes, a noisy dining hall, milk at break time,different toys, paints, stories and computer games. And there are rules to be obeyed. Sometimes for a four or five year old, that is the biggest change as they come to terms with the rules that keep them and everyone else safe and sometimes it takes more than a few weeks, but by the time they are knocking on my door they have become old hands at the game. I often get my children to write stories for the first years and to go down and talk to them, because they know better than anyone what it is to be the new kids on the block.

The decision to follow Jesus may be an instant one, even allowing for months or years of pondering beforehand, but even though I can then call myself a Christian, I am not the finished article, for there is so much to learn. As I step through those open gates for the first time, I know I'll make mistakes, will get things wrong because it's so different to what I've known and all new, but I also know that there are many who have already passed through before me and they'll help me to understand better as I learn, and as Peter says, 'Like newborn babies, crave pure spiritual milk, so that by it you may grow up in your salvation.' Also because I want to learn, it's easier to say goodbye to what I've left behind. And my Teacher doesn't take any holidays.

S is for STEPHEN

This is a story about Stephen, though sometimes his name is spelled Steven, but I'm still talking about the same persons.

I hadn't seen Stephen for a long time, but I caught up with him last weekend. He hadn't changed, though I hadn't remembered him wearing glasses before. I guess time had moved more quickly than I thought. He doesn't work now even though he and I are about the same age but his employers allowed him to bring his career to a premature close and hopefully open up another avenue of employment. He was more than a community policeman for he was a policeman of the community. His wit was as sharp as it had been when he used to drop into school in his uniform and despite being a Man City supporter, he was never downhearted. But now I noticed a lovely maturity in his spiritual thinking and I was glad that our paths had crossed again.

I'd known Stephen at school, though he was a couple of years below me, but he'd always been a cheerful sort of person and after leaving, I seldom saw him until the last few years again when we would both be cheering on our Alma mater at a rugby game or in our local village where he worked for the government. Yet no matter when we meet he always has time to talk and I'm so glad that, all these years later, his faith is more vibrant than ever.

Stephen and I are both teachers. We regularly communicate by text about issues in our jobs and often discuss things before or after church. But more often our discussions are about football or rugby and though he supports the Red Devils from the other side of Manchester, he is always fair in his judgement of the opposition, even from the red half of Merseyside, so I find myself doing likewise, if somewhat begrudgingly. During the last couple of years, more of his texts have been about the importance of God in his life and everyday job and is a sign of God taking him further in his walk.

I've known Stephen since he was born. He grew up partly in our church and partly in another. He has a great passion for sport though it was never going to be his career path. He became a referee, briefly, and a football coach but found neither to be his liking long term. Maybe it's because I was older and had time for him, but he always contacted me when he needed advice and was a willing listener. Married in the last few years, he has now chosen to become a teacher, a route that I hope I didn't influence. As he begins his first full time job, I know his feet are firmly grounded in the faith of his parents.

Stephen and I became great friends only about six years ago. He worked at my sons' school and the first time we met, immediately we hit it off. I had seen him many times before but knew little about him except that he worked hard at his job.IN the years that followed we would travel to rugby games together, meet socially, share our interests in music and film and be there for each other. Now that the boys have moved on, we don't have the same regular contact but when we meet, the atmosphere is always easy. Maybe that's because we also share the same faith in God.

Stephen fixes my car and that of my sons and gets them ready for MOT tests. He is also a psychiatrist, an architect and was a fellow student teacher many years ago.I've even taught Stephen in my class a couple of times. Confused? Well of course they're not all the same person, but they all answer to the name of Stephen (or Steven). However, they do all know the same person in the same way as I know Jesus and I guess that's more than just a coincidence of names.

Stephen, chosen by the twelve disciples to help with their work, was a man 'full of faith and the Holy Spirit.' Because of the power and grace that God had given him, he was able to do 'great wonders and miraculous signs.' It caused such jealously among the church leaders that it cost him his life. But even as he died, he was leaving a mark as Paul, possibly the greatest missionary ever, later reflects how he 'stood there giving my approval and guarding the clothes of those who were killing him.' All the Stephens I have known have left a mark on me through their faith. I hope my name has similar effect.

S is for SCHOOL

'Stand Out!' Those were the dreaded two words everyone didn't want to hear in the classroom. They were usually prefaced by a name of a pupil but they only meant one thing. The cane. There were any number of reasons why our teacher would have used that phrase, from eating in class, to messing about, copying and even talking or whispering. All these were punishable by a sharp crack of bamboo across the palm, the pain of which lasted long enough to remind us not to reoffend but the mark often lasted longer and you only hoped that it had gone by home time, just in case an inquisitive parent began to ask questions about the red stain on the hand. I reckon, in hindsight, that the teacher was probably hoping the mark had disappeared too otherwise he might have had some explaining to do, should a mother or father land at his door wanting chapter and verse of what had happened. When you were ordered to 'stand out!', it was like being on death row for a while, because the punishment was rarely administered immediately and you had to stand in the corner, near the big bookcase until teacher decided to become executioner. His cane was long and thin and had a hook on the end, a bit like a walking stick and I'm not sure if he really enjoyed using it for he never showed pleasure nor unease either before or afterwards. Once the moment of last requests had passed, the execution was swift and sharp and the pain only took seconds to kick in. Even if your name had not been called out, you quickly chose the path of least confrontation for the rest of the day, so I guess the method worked pretty well and nobody seemed to suffer any lasting effects or psychological disturbance. Only once in my primary school career did I hear those fateful words follow my name. It had come as something of a shock, not only to me but to everyone around but justice has no favourites and I soon was making the slow walk to the gallows, whereupon arriving, I waited with a certain false courage for the deadly blow. I was not detained for long and as the ache set in, I vowed that I would never return and left a changed fellow.

However, if I thought this was harsh treatment, I hadn't been to post-primary school yet but that day duly arrived and with it the introduction to a world that was ruled by fear and the cane. And no longer was it the sharp tap on the hand by a caring and thoughtful teacher who probably had our best interests at heart. No, this was a series of strokes on the posterior end of the anatomy, administered using the full force of a teacher's arm and with the sole purpose of using pain to wield power. The trouble with this system is always its misuse and I'm sure there were several teachers who found it difficult to separate their anger from their discipline methods and there were enough marks left to suggest that the punishment rarely fitted the crime. Having been reprogrammed by my one primary school experience, I never had the misfortune to come face to face with the ogres of secondary school but often I did watch as a poor, helpless offender was led along the corridor by a cane-slinging teacher towards an empty room and listened as the swish of wood on trousers echoed back towards me. As the teacher made his way back to holster his cane in the office, I couldn't help but notice how much redder his face had become and how much more impatient was his stride. Did it work? I don't really know, but the same individuals seemed to be constantly reoffending and only a handful of teachers appeared to use the cane with alarming regularity. Maybe that said more about the teachers than their targets!

The cane has long gone now and there is no doubt that while it did maintain a level of discipline that is often absent in our schools now, it's constant abuse made it a weapon that became obsolete and left a huge void for those who could find no other way to keep control. Still, you have to wonder how it would work in the twenty first century, when everyone has rights and has the means to get them.

How at odds such measures of discipline are with that of, the Great Teacher, our Father in Heaven for the writer of Proverbs tells us that 'the LORD disciplines those he loves, as a father the son he delights in.' What a lovely thought that because God loves me so much he corrects me when I do wrong. Likewise, Paul writing in Hebrews says 'Our fathers disciplined us for a little while as they thought best; but God disciplines us for our good, that we may share in his holiness.' I want to share in His holiness, in the good things of His kingdom and if he must direct me along a certain path, then I'm willing to follow. After all, that's really what discipline is - being guided and taught by someone who knows better than us. It may not be pleasant at the time but, 'later on, however, it produces a harvest of righteousness and peace for those who have been trained by it.'(Hebrews 12:11). But it takes love to be the teacher!

S is for SON

I wasn't asleep when the phone rang. The nurse said not to hurry as these things take time but maybe I should make my way over to the hospital reasonably soon. So I did just as she said, stopping at the Post Office letter box on the way to deposit a little mail. In hindsight, that was slightly prophetic! The car park was almost empty, as it should be at four o'clock in the morning, most of the lights were out, and there was a mild air for mid October. I went to the usual ward that I'd left the night before and was then ushered round to the delivery room. It was a white, cold looking space with just a bed upon which all of my family now lay. I understand why they call it a delivery room but there was still a fair amount of waiting around before the package arrived even though we'd been already waiting for most of the year. About 6:30am the package duly arrived and there he was, our first son. I think we always had an inkling that it would be a boy and though we had discussed girls' names, it had never been done with any real conviction. It was too early to signal our delight to mums and dads so we just sat there and marvelled at God's wonderful creation and, I suppose, not realising the impact that day would have on the rest of our lives. For nothing would ever be the same again and while marriage requires many sacrifices of self to make it successful, children need a whole lot more.

Eighteen months later and the old car was off on the same route again at approximately the same hour of the night. Another brief early morning stop to deposit a little male with my parents (was this prophetic again?) and then it was off to the hospital, admittedly a little more hurried this time as suggested in the tone of the lady sitting beside me. There was little I could do except hold her hand but this time the parcel was coming by express delivery and we didn't want to be late. It arrived at about 5:30am and a quick examination meant we were reaching for the book of boys' names once again. It was too early to phone mums and dads but we just did anyway, wanting to share God's marvellous creation as quickly as possible. I suppose I didn't realise the impact that day would have on the rest of our lives. For nothing could be the same again.

That's a long time ago now, with our youngest just about to exit his teenage years yet we seem to have travelled the road so quickly. Sure, we made mistakes along the way, took some wrong turnings and got caught in a few jams but experience and hindsight are wonderful things and with each difficulty we learned to choose a different road the next time.Nothing prepares you for being a parent but I continually thank God that He gave us two healthy boys to love and to care for and was always a passenger along any road we journeyed. And though our sons are older now, we still love them like they were just born even if we see less of them and they've become more independent. And there are always the memories of days when they brought joy into our lives and changed our focus for ever. I was thinking about this just yesterday as I watched a mother and her son in a music store. He was older than my own boys but disability required him to be dependent on his mother. Yet I marvelled at her patience as he searched through the shelves, explaining to her what he was looking for as his fingers traversed the DVD cases. I grasped that this was a patience not only borne out of love for her son but also out of understanding for his needs, which were greater than her own, a patience than had been nurtured through years of anxiety, false hope and frustration but had allowed her to sacrifice her own life in order to make his better. I knew that she understood it was better than not to have him at all and that was the energy that kept her going, for others have been less fortunate.

In that moment, and in what I knew of my own sons, I realised yet again what it had taken for God to give his own Son so that I might have a better life, free from sin and from its consequences. To lose a son, even fleetingly, as they make their own way in the world is a difficult and lonely experience but to lose a son permanently through illness or tragic circumstances is not something any loving parent would pain for. Yet that is exactly what God did, choosing my spiritual well-being ahead rather than His Son's life. Like any father. I guess He wouldn't have done it if there had been another way, but it does make me realise, how much He loves me. It's taken me a few paragraphs to see what John said in one verse, For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. But I reckon you've got my drift by now.

S is for SPORT

We were talking the other night with friends, about the rules of cricket when someone happened to mention that he loved listening to cricket on the radio, especially the Ashes series from down under in the early hours of the morning. Sometimes I find cricket hard enough to watch on television but the thought of being deprived of sleep just to listen to a commentary is enough to send me to sleep. Though when he explained that he would have done it more in the days of that great radio commentator, Brian Johnston, everything came more into focus and I understood where his passion came from. I suppose I'm equally guilty of such crimes, for many nights in the sixties, I found myself tuned in to a boxing commentary from stateside as the then Cassius Clay 'floated like a butterfly' in the images that someone's words were making on my brain. And so it was with so many sports. I longed for the Lions tours, the live boxing bouts, the Olympics, the World Cup and just about any great sporting occasion that kept me out of bed in the wee small hours, when most of the neighbourhood was dreaming. And because television money didn't dictate the starting times, it made the whole event more mysterious and exciting in an odd sort of way.

Grandstand, recently demised and World of Sport controlled Saturday afternoons, though unless it was a 5 nations rugby day, both channels amounted to little more than horse racing and. for an hour before the football results, wrestling with Jackie Pallow and Mick McManus. I can't say I found the whole thing very exciting, and without teletext, it was back to the radio to keep up to date with the latest scores. And there were so many heroes who kept us informed all the way. Dan Maskell on the tennis court, Eddie Waring with the rugby league microphone, Bill McClaren on the other rugby code, Kenneth Wolstenhome and Brian Moore on soccer, Peter O'Sullivan with the gee gees, David Coleman on the athletics track, Harry Carpenter and Reg Gutteridge in the ring, Richie Benaud at the crease and Murray Walker in in the pits.

There were so many events that just had to be seen like the FA Cup Final, the British Grand Prix, Wimbledon, the Rugby League Challenge Cup Final, the WInter Olympics, the Lions Tests, the Ashes, the World Heavyweight Boxing Championship, the European Cup Final, even the Royal International Horse Show on the night of the big wall. And in the days before video recorders, there was no option but to watch it live. Now, with all the sports channels and so many sports being shown on a whole range of other channels, video, DVD and Hard Disc recorders, I find that the saturation coverage and the ready availability of sport has somewhat dulled my interest and certainly my passion. Gone are the days when I need to stay up to watch rugby from New Zealand or boxing from America and with the advent of Pay-per-view, I just don't bother anyway. For in many ways, money has killed a lot of the passion and excitement and I know I would find it hard to motivate myself to great heights when I'm being paid such huge amounts of money as some of our sporting stars are receiving now.

Yet for many, with the availability of so much sport being beamed into our homes or taking place on our doorstep and the promise of great wealth for those who are successful in their particular field, sport is quickly becoming God in people's lives. Church and Bible studies are squeezed in before the big match and few would consider leaving the entry price to a top sporting event on the offering plate.I guess our churches only have themselves to blame as the product they promote is often shamefully presented and unlikely to encourage non-believers through the door while sport thrives on the excitement it brings. But in truth, the sporting heroes and commentators of my youth have all gone and are mostly forgotten yet God is still on the throne. And that's what we must never forget, for when your sporting hero lets you down, remember God always has the victory!

S is for SUNBURN

We had been driving for three days. Most of the time, the sun had been beaming down on the my little VW Polo and , without air conditioning to cool our heads and our minds, the windows were open most of the time and the warm breeze only slightly compensated. After a less than pleasant twenty hours on a ferry from Ireland, I suppose even a less than cool wind was some consolation, but our target was almost as far south of France as one can go and still be in France. Our only guide was a little travel journal by Arthur Eperon in which he described the most suitable paths through the vast country, from north to south, taking in the desirable sites en route and, for the budget conscious, like us students at the time, avoiding the costly motorways. It was generally a delightful journey, stopping at little towns and villages along the well worn pages of his journal and checking our daily progress against his suggested time period. Driving for the first time abroad where everything happens the opposite way round is difficult but it wasn't helped in any way by the fact that I was driving a right-hand drive car and was often dependent upon my passenger / girlfriend / soon to be wife / fellow student to act as lookout on the outside lane. Still, the small villages and the glorious scenery made it all worthwhile and the memory of fields full of sunflowers is forever etched on my mind.

Eventually we arrived at a small town, beside the Mediterranean sea, that lay at the bottom of Mr. Eperon's page and signalled the last stop on his and our journey. Nestled between St. Tropez and Cannes and joined to its sister town of Frejus, St. Raphael proved to be a worthwhile base for our short stay where the rich and famous play. It was quiet yet busy, bustling yet serene and the constant glare of the sun's reflection from the bright blue sea was worth the journey south alone. The further we travelled from Paris and the closer to St Raphael, the hotter the sun became. This was territory where open air barbecues were not recommended, where a stray match could have devastating consequences and where most people seemed content to let the sun do its job on their bodies. I've always loved the sun, but being from the north of Europe, I need it for longer and at a slower pace than those whose melanin rich skin gives them a head start on their tan. But I didn't have time and worse still forgot to apply any Factor of protection. It was already late afternoon by the time we reached St Raphael and later still when we booked into our hotel, yet even after four o'clock, we deemed there to be enough sun available to spend a couple of hours on the beach. I didn't notice any problem immediately, though my skin did feel slightly hot and ever so itchy. However, closer examination in the bathroom mirror revealed all was not well and by late evening, I was in agony all across my back but as the night wore on the skin seemed to tighten and sleep left me. A succession of wet towels throughout the early hours did little to relieve the pain and even after several different cream applications, I realised that I would just have to suffer for my ignorance. And suffer I did and so did my passenger / girlfriend / soon to be wife / fellow student who must have been wondering what she was going to marry. After the initial sunburn pain and tightness had begun to ease, the blisters appeared and they were no less kind, but my passenger / girlfriend / wife to be / fellow student took it all in her stride and perched herself out on the window sill of her hotel room to catch the same sun that had done so much damage to me. I suppose that's what they call 'coming out in sympathy'! I couldn't hide it and for the rest of our stay in that lovely town and a few days afterwards as well, blister after blister broke constantly moistening my T shirts. I had learned my lesson and have never been burned by the sun since that day.

When we expose ourselves to sin, it leaves its mark too and no matter what we do, we can't get rid of it. And you know, it doesn't matter that we've been warned to take the proper precautions to avoid it, because often it only takes a glimpse at it and it's hurting us in some area of our lives. I'd like to think that each time it happens and we see the pain it causes, we become a little bit wiser and more alert but it doesn't always happen. And the damage can last for a lot longer than sunburn for it won't get better unless we ask God to intervene.In his letter to the Christians in Rome Paul tells them 'The wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.' who paid the ultimate sacrifice for my sin through his death and resurrection.

Fortunate is the person who never gets sunburnt but 'Blessed is the man whose sin the Lord will never count against him.' (Romans 4v8).

S is for SATURDAY

I don't remember much about Saturdays before I as twelve. I didn't sit up for Match of the Day because it didn't exist yet but I do recall Saturday nights in front of the box, watching Doctor Who, Dixon of Dock Green and The Black and White Minstrel Show. The first doctor was an old man with long grey hair, though it could have been any colour on our black and white TV set and he fought bravely against Daleks and Cybermen who seemed so much more mysterious and scary on a grainy monochrome picture than they do now. Saturday night was also bath night, sometimes in a large basin in front of the fire and also Sunday School lessons learning night, but the rest of the day is a bit of a blur. There was no children's TV on a Saturday morning but I don't remember ever being bored so I guess I just got outside and made my own fun with a ball or on the bike.
By the time I had reached second year in grammar school, rugby had taken over my winter Saturday mornings and often most of the day and this was a pattern that would continue for the next twenty five years, both with school and club so there was little point in trying to make plans to do anything else that day. It was an enjoyable time, travelling in the bus to different schools and the further I moved through school, the closer I got to the back of the bus. The teachers always occupied the front seats but when the singing started near the rear, just a glance and a frown over their shoulders was enough to restore order. The worst times were when an important rugby or football game was on the box and we were still making our way home from an away match and, since there were no highlights programmes, if you missed the live action, your best bet was to catch thirty seconds on the evening news. After I left school, the whole of Saturday before a game revolved around the game itself, building up properly, being mentally prepared for kick-off at half past two, eating properly and trying to get as much rest in the morning, but often it didn't work out that way, with so many other things to fit in and sometimes amounted to little more than ten minutes before a game started. Still, I loved the game and the competition and when it all came to an end for me, it was just about to begin for my son, so like the good father that I was, I insisted on watching him at school, home and away and now that he has moved on to a club, I find myself still on the move on a Saturday. So, like I say, rugby still takes over my winter Saturdays. For a couple of years in between, I had a brief affair with football again as our local side Loughgall, moved through the ranks, winning all before them and, apart from being an avid supporter, also tried to give something back by becoming programme editor and announcer for a couple of seasons. So in a sense, I suppose, Saturday has always been a day set aside for sport.
Saturday was the day that John died. He was the son of our good friends and fellow school rugby parents and had risen to play for his country at under age level. A friend and I sat in our living room, watching Ireland in the Six Nations when a single phone call totally changed our focus and put sport firmly in its proper place. I tried to imagine the anguish his parents were feeling as they tried to confirm the worst, how his school mates would react when they discovered the passing of their captain and also how we all, as parents who had developed a close bond watching our boys would cope with our own grief and yet try to support his mum and dad, sister and brother in their most tragic moment of loss. Had he survived, I guess John would have lived for two thirty on a Saturday afternoon just as hid dad had done alongside me for years.

Saturday was also the day that the doctor confirmed our worst fears. As mum sat in her chair in that small side ward in hospital, he seemed to encourage her with his words that she would not be having an operation for her illness. And in mum's face, I never detected a moment's doubt, until caught the nurse's smile, which said a thousand words but hid many more. I glanced at my sister which only confirmed that she too understood what had not been said and as she and mum chatted inside, the doctor expounded on the terminal nature of mum's disease. We didn't tell her until Monday. We needed time to reflect ourselves on such devastating news and to prepare the close family for what lay ahead. It was a bad Saturday. Tears flowed, prayers were said and sport was nowhere to be seen. And yet my final memory is of our son, sitting at the electric piano and playing 'It is well with my soul' over and over again. We sat on the couch, helpless and heartbroken and yet, somewhere, though that music God was saying, 'it will be OK because your mum's soul is well even if her body isn't.'

I still love Saturday, for the chance to break the routines of the week, to still take in some sport, to go and have coffee with the wife but also it's a time to reflect on the many Saturdays that I'd rather not have had to live through and yet each in its own way has been important in how God has taught me to depend on him when I don't understand what is happening around me. And His promise through Isaiah is 'So do not fear, for I am with you;do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.'

Today is Saturday. May God uphold you today in the same way that He has helped me and in Him may you find the strength for tomorrow.

S is for SUMMER

For more than forty years, July and August have only meant summer holidays. I always had both months off at primary and secondary school and at university and now that I've been teaching ever since, come the last day of June, I know I'll be looking forward to at least a whole eight weeks away from work. I suppose there has to be some perks in the job! But summer lasts a whole lot longer, beginning in mid June and fading away in late September, though this year I think I missed it! And isn't it true that the warm sun and the thought of holidays and lazy days by the beach creates a mental mood that we don't experience for most of the rest of the year. Summer's also the time when many parents have to think of alternative recreation for their children to alleviate the boredom of weeks at home, so suddenly a mass of sports camps, football schools, mini rugby festivals, holiday Bible clubs, beach missions, summer creches, fun days and sleepovers are all competing for attention. It's funny, but I don't ever remember any of them being about when I was at primary school and anyway I don't remember being bored.

There was always something to do and, like most kids, I probably made my own fun. I was never fed up with videos, DVDs, game consoles, CDs, children's TV channels and mp3 players because there weren't any around but my trusty old bike covered plenty of tarmac and the football, tennis ball and rugby ball saw plenty of action around the walls of the yard. Then there was always grass to cut, doors, windows and roofs to paint, hay to make and a multitude of places to walk and play so it wasn't long before you would be counting the days rather than the weeks until the start of a new school year. Holidays, spent away from home, were never a big thing in our family and we were more likely to 'go for a day' to the seaside, Butlins or Dublin Zoo and the Sunday School Excursion to Newcastle was a an important event in the leisure calendar. Dad, like most farmers, was always busy at something during the summer, so we generally fitted our trips around his schedule, though we did head off to Portrush for a whole week and my sister and I would often spend part of the summer with our grandparents in Belfast. And nobody went on foreign holidays, visited theme parks or water parks and cruising was for the rich and famous or else on the Maid of Antrim for a couple of hours on Lough Neagh.

And though it's only half way through the year, I always think of summer as a watershed for so many of us. It's the time when we change classes or schools, when we leave school to start work or go to university, when we meet old friends that we haven't seen for a year and when we say goodbye to the childhood of others, when we cultivate new relationships on holidays and discover hidden gems around the world. Many of us remember our first summer driving a car, our first summer romance, the books we read during the summer, the family times away from home, the adventures and , unfortunately, the times when sadness blotted out the sun.And we often count our age as so many summers because after each one we close the door on part of our lives and open a new one. And yet summer is still routine for most of us even on holiday, lying in that bit longer, having cups of coffee every morning, going on a holiday, gardening, having friends round, reading a book - it's so predictable in a way when we want it to be so different to the rest of our year. Yet for farmers it is such a critical time for most of their year's work depends on what happens for those few months when their crops ripen and they know without that harvest the winter can be very long.

The writer of Proverbs tells us that 'Ants are creatures of little strength, yet they store up their food in the summer.' for they know that it is a watershed in their lives. Jeremiah reminds us that 'The harvest is past, the summer has ended, and we are not saved,' and in those two verses I see both wisdom and foolishness. When the harvest has passed and the summer is over, I want to have stored up my treasures in heaven.

S is for SUNDAY

Sunday was always a quiet day in our house. There were the usual routines, mostly revolving around church times and culminating in dinner together sometime around 1:30pm. By this time, we would have had breakfast, gone to Sunday School around 10:30am then on to church at 12 noon, before escaping at about 1:15pm, having lasted the whole sermon with only a Polo mint for sustenance. Mum cooked the dinner in the early part of the day, kept it in the oven while the minister orated and then it took just a few minutes to serve after we arrived home. Everyone helped with the washing up, dad included and then he found time for a long snooze on the couch while big sister and I headed off to Bible Class in what remained of the afternoon. After tea, there was usually time for a quick Bible quiz or a few gospel tracks from Jim Reeves or George Beverley Shea before Songs of Praise was given an airing on TV and then it was off to the local mission hall for another bite of enlightenment. That was the only time the TV got warm on a Sunday, a rule that mum had insisted on since she had got married. I can't say I wholly agreed with her decision, but dad seemed to be happy enough and I guess I didn't really miss out, except for possibly three or four World Cup Finals that always seemed to kick off about the time the mission hall started and, oh yes, Peyton Place, which everybody else in the world seemed to be watching. When I got tired of Jim Reeves crooning, I used to stick on an old Burl Ives record that he made with the help of the Korean Orphan Choir and for ages, as it played, I would just stare at these strange, smiling faces from the other side of the world. I wonder what happened to all of them?

Almost every Sunday, we would have somebody visiting. One of my dad's brothers,and his wife always came in the afternoon to see my grandmother who still lived with us and I looked forward to that visit because, for years, they always brought me a copy of The Beano and Diana for my sister. Also every few weeks, another brother and his wife would appear with a large tub of freshly made ice cream which was gratefully accepted. But most Sunday nights, our local caretaker, Billy, would cycle from his home beside the church and, along with mum and dad, would spend a couple of hours over supper, regurgitating and digesting the local news that everyone had collected. I suppose I didn't really appreciate it at the time, but Sunday in our house, was different to the other days of the week and while church was central, family time was also important and there was always a chance to recharge the batteries in readiness for the week ahead.

So church and family life is still important to me on a Sunday and although I haven't adopted all of mum's ideas about how to spend the Sabbath, I still find myself, reflecting on the fourth commandment and questioning the rights and wrongs of many activities that have become the norm in our society on the first day of the week. Essentially God tells us to keep His day holy and also to rest and I suppose I have come to the conclusion in my own mind, that when something begins to erode or constantly occupy the time I would devote to my faith and to worship of God on Sunday, and indeed to the time I need to rest, then I feel uncomfortable with where I am. Jesus reminds us that 'The Sabbath was made for man, not man for the Sabbath,' and in that I find my answer, for God knows that I need a Sunday for my spiritual and physical well being. And if He doesn't occupy my thoughts on His day, it's unlikely I would find room for Him between Monday and Saturday. So I guess I'll continue my Sunday observance holding on to the past and securing my future.

S is for SANTA CLAUS

I saw him walking down the street in my local town the other day. He was about six feet three inches tall, his face was reddish and he had a long grey beard that matched his flowing locks of grey hair. He didn't seem to be going anywhere in a hurry. I've know him for some time, not personally, but I have spoken to him on many occasions. His real name is John and for a large part of my life he managed the local record shop in town. Several times the shop moved location and every time I followed John to his new home, to browse through his vast musical array hoping to satisfy my musical hunger. There were other record stores in town and in the bigger cities but they were never like his, for he didn't just cater for what was popular in the charts and television but regularly stocked names that few in the country had ever heard of and introduced me to a world of music that didn't exist in the other shops. And he had a great knowledge of his products, always ready to chat about new artists whom I might like and often he would hand me a set of headphones so I could listen before I'd buy, just in case I would be disappointed by his recommendation. So, when I visited his shop, almost always I bought something, such was his generosity of heart and I'm pretty sure he treated all his customers in the same way. And that's why we called him Santa Claus, that and his long grey beard and hair.

As a child I rarely stopped to think deeply about Santa Claus, his generosity and why he does it year after year. It was enough to know that he made it to my house once a year, had a generosity that my mum and dad could never match and, even though they warned me that he only came to good boys and girls, he never let me down and always seemed to know exactly what I wanted. Sometimes he left our presents on the sofa in the kitchen, other times they were on the carpet in the living room, sometimes wrapped but usually not and on the very odd occasion, in the case of our new bikes, were left in the garage. And he always left something for mum as well, usually chocolates. I remember one year, feeling a bit disgruntled that he had left her nothing until she found a box of Milk Tray behind the curtain at the front door. And we always made sure he didn't go hungry himself, with a glass of milk, some cake and a carrot for his reindeer and all had disappeared by the time I got up on Christmas morning. Like I say, I never stopped to think how one carrot fed the whole herd or how he managed to get everone's presents on his sleigh, and how he coped with all those glasses of milk and occasionally something a little stronger, but then it's really only big people who worry about such things! When our boys were born, he immediately had our house on his address list and right from their first Christmas, even though they still didn't know he existed, he was delivering presents that they hadn't even requested. How thoughtful is that? And as they grew up, I recall how they felt the same excitement that I had known each Christmas Eve and the following morning, how sleep would desert them from the early hours and how he always delivered exactly what they wanted and more. It seemed to me that Santa Claus was actually getting richer as he got older!

And despite all his goodness down the years, I wouldn't even start to compare the love that is shown through Santa Claus with the love that Jesus has shown for me, for I feel his goodness every day of the year and not just on one special occasion. The great thing about his love is that he treats my needs and not just my wants as Paul says, writing to the Philippians, 'My God will meet all your needs according to his glorious riches in Christ Jesus.' I don't know if you've ever stopped to think about why He does it and I can find no greater answer than the line in that old children's hymn, 'Because He loves me so.' Jesus came to this world, long before Santa Claus and He brings the greatest present of all that lasts for ever, but He needs to know that you want it!

W is for WALK

I have some favourite walks. The half mile of road that stretches from my house to the local Presbyterian church building, I have tramped since I was old enough to put one leg past the other. It's not a busy road and it takes about 25 minutes at a brisk pace to do it both ways. The family dogs take a whole lot longer as there are numerous scents to check out and posts and trees at which to make a brief stop every few minutes. It's a road that I know has been walked by my ancestors many times, sometimes going to church or visit a neighbour, nut often just as a Sunday afternoon amble.
But an equally satisfying walk is alongside the Callan river that winds its way through the local fields on its journey to meet the Blackwater. This is the sort of walk I often undertake when I need time to think or to talk to myself, for it is a solitary dander, often punctuated with stops to view the wildlife on its banks or to glimpse at another world just across the river. Occasionally I will just walk to one particular spot on the river bank and sit for ages, only bothered by the odd curious cow, whose conversation is fairly limited. Sometimes, when the river overflows, the fields become partial lakes so for a while the view is transformed and the path I choose to tread requires more care.
I love the walks in the local country park, early in the morning but especially after the sun has set, when the paths are almost deserted save nightime creatures like ourselves. The lake is still and shimmering, almost like a sheet of glass and the heron that has found a home there, skims gracefully over the surface before perching elegantly on a distant branch. The golf course is equally lonely with the last of the enthusiasts making their way to the nineteenth hole. Many of the walks are darkened by trees even when the sun is on full power, but on an evening of fast fading light, strange shadows appear all along the route and the noise of the night animals coupled with the silence left by the day dwellers changes the atmosphere to one of remoteness and isolation. With us, this walk is never an amble, being more of a necessity to retain some level of fitness in our bodies as our age had long since moved out of single figures, so it is seldom a time to stop and appreciate the beauty around but often a chance to discuss the events of the day. How strange too, that as daylight fades away, so does the colour and the world becomes a much more grey place to live.
As I grew up, walking was a major part of my life at secondary school. Walking down the lane to catch the morning bus, walking from the bus depot to school and often, in the evenings, when sport practice required me to stay late, walking the mile or so home from the last bus stop. Often on Saturday, after a school rugby match, when dad was away at the market and no other car was at home, I would always make my way through town and out into the country on foot, heading for home, eight miles away and hoping that my extended tight thumb might be spotted by a thoughtful passing motorist, who would then help to shorten my journey. Sometimes I was lucky and one lift might bring me within a mile of my destination. Other times I might be dependent on three or four lifts to travel the same distance and once or twice my good fortune completely deserted me and I had to make the long trek home completely on foot. It's not a method I would advise nowadays but then, even at the height of the Troubles, when religious and political suspicions ran high, there seemed to be a greater general trust in individuals and a willingness to help anyone, so I never doubted my safety for a moment.

The book of Genesis tells us that Noah and Enoch both walked with God during their lives. What a lovely affirmation of a person's relationship with their Lord for you can't get closer to someone than when walking with them and when you're that close, you're more likely to hear everything they say, even when they are only whispering. That's where I want to be, walking with God everyday, so that I never miss a word when He chooses to speak to me. The prophet Micah says that God requires us to 'walk humbly with your God.' And the great thing about walking with God is that we travel at the pace He chooses.

W is for WATER SKIER

His name was Andrew.He arrived at the beach every morning in his sleek motorboat, dressed in a red vest and swim shorts which created a stark contrast with his jet black skin. We had watched him each day from the safety of the sun loungers on the other side of a well manicured hedge and occasionally from the sandy shore itself, as he demonstrated his considerable skill on the skis in the perfectly calm waters of the ocean stretching out before us. Sometimes he was reduced to one ski and at other times, skimmed the water using only the skin of his bare feet to glide over the surface. Exhibition completed, he would then retire to one of the many hotel cafes of watering holes that fringed the shore, before emerging refreshed and ready to tout for business in his other role as water skiing instructor. I don't know what made me think I could do it, nor my wife, for that matter. Maybe it was the fact that we were only married a few days and still floating, maybe it was the fact that we were half way across the globe in an unreal Caribbean world or maybe you just do these sort of things when you are on holiday, for i had no reason to be confident in my ability, despite the instructor's assurances and the life belt fastened around my waist. I'm not a great swimmer, I don't particularly like water sports and I fear deep water. Yet here I was perched on a couple of pieces of wood, with only a thin rope between me and Andrew's boat, a whole two minutes training behind me and a whole world of deep water in front of me. I knew as soon as the boat took off at high speed that I was in trouble and before long I could only see it in the distance as it circled around to collect me and I waited nervously, bobbing up and down in a pool with no bottom and wondering what was studying my dangling legs from below. It was my new bride's turn now but she fared no better and we were soon swapping places again. And so it continued for over an hour by the end of which time, Andrew had all but given up and ferried us back to the comfort of our hotel beach, richer in his pocket but probably bemoaning the lack of sporting skill in the Irish.

His name was TC. He arrived at the beach every morning in his less than sleek motorboat, dressed in a faded blue vest and shorts. He spent a lot of his time chatting to hotel staff and guests at the various establishments along the front and rarely appeared to be in his other role as water skiing instructor. He and Andrew didn't seem particularly close. I don't know what made me think I could do it, nor my wife for that matter. Maybe it was the fact that we had failed already, maybe because it was cheaper this time, maybe because we had already overcome our fears or maybe because TC assured us that we would be able to do it. However this time there was something different. He showed us a different starting position on the skis, spent time explaining how to change as we began to move and, most important of all, encouraged us all the way, something that had been missing on our first experience. And when the boat moved off, it was at a pace more suitable for a beginner than a seasoned professional. And you know, we both were skiing first attempt. Yes, we had a few falls and a few long waits in the deep, deep water but he never lost us from view and his constant grin and supporting words galvanized us fro the job in hand. Even though my arms, shoulders and legs ached for days afterwards, I'll always remember that day in the water. And the bright blue badge he gave us said, 'I ski with TC'.

What a difference a word of encouragement and a slice of patience makes. I'm often guilty of not encouraging others enough and, especially when new believers come into the fellowship, we need to be there to help them, to show them how to keep their balance as they stand up and move forward in their faith, and to be patient as they grow. The New Testament letters are full of examples of fellow Christians encouraging each other and Paul , in his letter to the Thessalonians, says 'Therefore encourage one another and build each other up.' and also to 'encourage the timid, help the weak, be patient with everyone.' God never intended me to be a water skier but He does expect me to be patient and encouraging, even when the water is very deep.

W is for WINDOW

I saw the smoke from my window as it rose slowly into the sky. It was several hills in the distance, probably a good two miles as the crow flies and yet, even though it was a common sight in the countryside at any time of year, something didn't seem quite right. First, as the clock had only turned seven in the morning, it appeared to be rather early for any farmer to be already burning bushes or lighting fires or a householder to be tidying around his home. Secondly, although I was always taught that there is no smoke without fire, I couldn't see any flames. As I trained my eyes through a better viewpoint, from an upstairs window, I could see a moving figure, dressed in light colours and just visible above the hedge. The journey was a short one, from the house to the smoke and back. It was like watching a silent movie unfold before my eyes, but when flashing lights of emergency vehicles began to gather near the smoke, I knew this was real life and not just a film clip. I hadn't heard the bomb that had claimed another life for the double glazing had protected me and the distance had shielded me from the emotions of the moving figure but the window had allowed me to gaze in on someone else's tragedy and even from afar, in that eerie silence, I didn't like what I saw.

In his later years dad had a favourite seat, on the couch, by the kitchen window. From his vantage point, he could view the countryside all the way to the village,could see farmers cutting silage or making hay, harvesting barley and potatoes. He could tell when the river was higher than normal after prolonged rain, knew when his neighbours were spraying their apple orchards and could see cattle in his own fields. When the grass on the lawns became longer than an inch, he could see it through the window and we were told so and expected to rectify it and he could watch his three tiny dogs as they lay sleeping outside the back door. He didn't like any car parked there, for it blocked his view and when he heard a car, tractor or motor bike arrive in the yard, he would wait expectantly until a head appeared around the corner. His was the first face you would see through the window when you arrived and as he welcomed you, he beckoned you to 'come on in for a while's craic'. Now, I miss that face at the window, but I can still see everything he saw when I'm on his side.

And that's the strange thing about a window. The view depends which side you're on. I've looked through many windows from the outside and been disappointed with the view, for the inside has not always reflected the image that the window created. But sometimes I'm pleasantly surprised by what I see, for the owner knows that a window's main function is not adornment but to provide light to the inside. When others look at us, do they see a different outside to what we really are and when they really get to know us are they disappointed or elated? And how often has our opinion of someone changed, for better or worse, through time, when we get beyond the exterior? Yet I can't forget that when I look through any window, I can see my own reflection, showing me exactly what I am like. As the write of Proverbs reminds us, ' As water reflects a face, so a man's heart reflects the man.' And it's really God who counts at the end of the day and what He sees in my heart when He looks in to my life. I want it to be a place where He is always happy to live and I hope others can see His reflection in the window.

W is for WORLD

Before the M1 motorway was constructed, it used to take over an hour to travel to Belfast from home. Now, with all the roadworks, it takes longer. Mum and dad used to take ages to pack away the groceries. Now it only takes a few minutes. I used to never be able to find anything to watch on the four TV channels. Now I can't find anything to watch on the hundred or so channels. Before mobile phones I used to never be able to contact anyone when I needed to. Now I can't get away from anyone. We used to have neighbours and friends round for an evening's chat. Now we write to them on the computer. Mum used to take all morning to prepare dinner. Now the microwave takes ten minutes. We used to eat and drink everything that our mothers made. Now we come out in rashes. We used to run after a football all evening. Now we won't even run after a bus. We used to teach children what was right. Now they only want to know their rights. Hardly progress, is it? And the world was supposed to be a better place because of all the advances we have made. In school we have become obsessed with computers, which I love, with the development of skills and competences, with test results and achievements and the acclaim that the school receives on account of its success, but where are the faces of the children or have they just become a statistic that someone will manipulate to underpin their particular ideology. What price progress?
The loss of childhood innocence, the breakup of family life, the lack of time to build meaningful relationships, the abundance of new illnesses and diseases, the lure of wealth, the proliferation of crime, the cheapness of life, the promotion of self, the dearth of respect, the self-made man.

He came from another world, sent by his father as a baby with the extraordinary power to defeat the greatest evil that existed, yet he lived most of his time as an ordinary person. As he grew, he became more aware of what he could do, see and hear and of the knowledge he had been given and when his time came he was ready to save so many. His earthly mother knew he was something special but she knew that he couldn't stay for ever, yet he always promised that he would return some day. So when he came back and Lois Lane told him that 'The world was a better place without Superman for the world doesn't need a Saviour,' he replied, 'Every day, I hear people calling out to be saved.'

And don't those words of hers just encapsulate where we as a world have arrived in our thinking about God. A world where we live for today and let tomorrow take care of itself. Thankfully, every day, God still hears people calling out to be saved and by His grace they find the world to be a better place when He answers their cries. And as Paul writes in Acts, 'He has set a day when he will judge the world.' Like Peter, we who believe are looking forward to a new world, a new heaven and a new earth.

You know, Lois Lane was wrong. The world may not want a Saviour but they do need Him.

W is for WHEELBARROW

Dad used to have a cattle shed at the top of the field beside our house. Every morning, when I would be having a last slice of toast before running down the lane to catch the bus for school, I would see him walk past the kitchen window with a bale of hay strung over his back, on his way to that shed which he could access through a door that opened out on to the garden. But during the winter. The few cattle that he kept over the winter spent most of those months there and two or three times over that period, it was necessary to clean out the shed and lay completely new straw bedding. This was heavy work, as I found out on several occasions, for the only tools that he used to complete the task were a grape and a wheelbarrow. There were no shortcuts that could be taken, just several hours' manual labour that many of today's farmers would have shirked in favour of a tractor job. But, over the years he persisted with his chore, filling the barrow and manoeuvring it the twenty or so yards to the manure pit where he would then proceed to empty it in much the same way as he had filled it and then returning to start the whole process again.

I always knew when the job was underway for I could hear the rhythmic whistling sound of the barrow as its wheel casing rubbed against the axle on its way to and from the shed. But the barrow had other functions as well. At weeding time it transported discarded plants to the dump, often it was filled with grass cuttings at lawn mowing time, was used when the yard was being swept free of debris and when a tree had been cut up for firewood in the orchard, it carried the logs to their new home in the garage. Occasionally it was even used to give rides to cousins and friends, after a good washing down, of course.Apart from the occasional flat wheel, it required no servicing and faithfully did its job whenever called upon.But it was a brute of a wheelbarrow. It had a heavy iron frame and bolted to this was the 'bucket' in which everything sat. Often it weighed more than its load but it was so big that it held twice as much as any other barrow.

It has been a member of our family for over half a century now and I haven't seen another one similar to it in the past thirty years. These days it still does many of the chores that it knows from memory but time has not been kind because four reasonably sized holes now occupy the places where corners of the bucket once were and it certainly isn't as appealing as some wheelbarrows I see in the DIY stores, yet I wouldn't swap it for any other.

And I feel the same about my faith in God. It's a simple faith, based on what I read and learn about Him in his Word. Despite the claims of modern society that we must move with the times in this new century, God doesn't need any new spins on salvation or alternative man-made theories to convince me of His love when the 'old, old story' still works for me. Isaiah records, 'Even to your old age and grey hairs I am He, I am He who will sustain you.I have made you and I will carry you.' After all, the faith of my fathers carried them through and it's still strong enough to carry me.

W is for WINDY

I'm not frightened of the wind at home. Living on a hill we get our fair share of stormy nights as the wind whistles through the valley below our house, but for some reason no matter how stormy it appears to be outside, we remain relatively sheltered though seemingly exposed. I guess the hedges in the fields and the number of large trees around the perimeter take most of the battering leaving us in relative peacefulness. And there is something oddly stirring in being able to sit inside and hear the wind howling in the trees or lying, wrapped up in bed, feeling safe from the monster causing havoc to nature.

However, I feel less secure about storms when away from the homestead. Maybe it's the uncertainty of the building that I am temporarily using as home or maybe it's the certainty that the storm is much worse than what we experience here but there is no doubt that I feel a definite unease about the whole event. And as for being at sea or in the air, well I just don't cope with that at all. I remember on one occasion, returning from a trip to Liverpool and watching the crew attempting to manoeuvre the ferry out of harbour as it kept colliding with the side walls, then having to endure a sleepless night with huge waves crashing constantly and noisily against the ship and our voyage consisting of more ups and downs per minute than the average roller coaster. It sure was an unforgettable night, with most of the staff and passengers not too interested in the canteen but sitting rather closer to the bathrooms than normal and then to have to endure several extra hours at sea because the storm had slowed down our progress. Likewise, I can recall a similar windy day when our small plane took off from Belfast City airport and was thrown about in the sky for at least ten minutes before getting beyond the storm and some sense of normality. So I'm OK with storms as long as I'm sitting in the living room!

Still, (and that's a strange word to use when talking about wind), I suppose it's often not the storm that is the problem but the aftermath of devastation that it leaves in its wake. We normally experience most of our windy nights in October, which is no comfort to apple farmers, who find most of their crop on the ground, but the greatest problem's almost always an interruption to the electricity supply for hours and sometimes days. In October, it's not so bad, though still inconvenient, but on Christmas Eve, it's slightly more disconcerting, especially when the powers that be (another unfortunate choice of words) suggest that it will be several days before supply is restored. And so it was, a few years ago, that we faced Christmas Day,with the in-laws and outlaws coming for dinner, turkey, vegetables and desserts all prepared, but nothing cooked. I looked at the small camping gas stove that mum and dad owned and decided that not even the most optimistic chef could have prepared a Yuletide dinner on its meagre flame. It's wonderful how the mind works in overdrive in such situations and such a scenario had been circling my mind since the wind had reached gale force the previous day. Knowing that the local village rarely had an electricity blackout and seeing the lights no more than a mile away, we made a decision to save the day. For this would be the Christmas morning,we would spend in the primary school we ran, in the staff room to be exact, bent over an old electric cooker shortly after the boys had opened their presents. As they played happily all morning, blissfully unaware that dinner was in danger of being a non-event, their mum and dad made a series of excursions to our place of work and by normal dinner time, everything was , well, normal and dinner was on the table as the guests arrived.

I was reading recently about how the disciples became so afraid the night the storm broke around them while out on the sea of Galilee. Many of them were seasoned fishermen and, I'm sure, accustomed to windy nights at seas, but this was something different, something that made them smell fear. But how Jesus eased their fears when He spoke and calmed the storm. It made me think that even as Christians, we are not immune to the rough patches that life throws at us but to have Jesus there to help us through is such a blessing. Yet, like the disciples, it also teaches me whom He really is for nothing is beyond His control and he's always in the boat with me. "Where is your faith?" he asked his disciples. Mine is in the God who made the wind!

W is for WASHED

Monday was always wash day at home. From early morning, often before breakfast, mum would be hard at work, going through her usual ritual that would occupy most of her time until dinner. For most of the week the washing machine sat, hidden in a corner under the worktop of the scullery, a small room beside the kitchen where most of the food was stored and the washing up was done. It was a strange looking machine, about the height of any modern washer but much more square at the top, being only about a foot and a half in both directions. A silver lid covered its opening and while it portrayed a white metal outer surface, inside it was just plain grey. Jutting up though the centre was a rotating 'pole' that kept the clothes moving slowly around the container and perched on the top was a mangle that folded down into the body of the machine when being packed away. On the front were just a couple of blue controls, that resembled light switches and a large, flat red 'button' that could be pushed to stop and start the process.

Washing clothes was not an easy task. First of all, as the machine was not plumbed in, the inside container had to be filled with water. This was usually done with the aid of a small hose attached to the cold tap in the scullery. Then, after the water had reached the required temperature, the clothes were placed inside, some Daz or Persil flakes sprinkled over the top and the lid closed. The washing process usually went on for a good hour after which mum would take each piece of clothing out, start up the mangle on top and thread everything through the rotating rollers to squeeze out as much water as possible. The clothes would then land in a basin on the other side and when all this had been done, she would carry the basin of damp clothes out to the washing line and hang them using the wooden clothes pegs that she stored in a mushroom punnet. The two washing lines consisted of nothing more than long strands of wire tied between two trees in the garden and which hung precariously low , at about neck height, when not being used for their intended purpose. When all the clothes were in position she attached a long wooden pole with a small slit in one end to the wire and raised it up so that the line became taut and the clothes began to move freely in the breeze. And when it rained, she would bring her lot into the kitchen and use the inside clothes line that stretched along one side of the room and where the clothes dried by the heat of the old Wellstood cooker. Then when everything was done, the washer had to be drained of water, again using the hose and packed away until next Monday. No, washing really was hard work.

Our washing machine at home is rarely off since the boys were born but I'm thankful that it can do most of the work itself and also that the tumble drier sits right next door on those rainy days. It's still a chore for the good woman but I dread to think what it could have been.

Sometimes it is hard to explain to the sceptic how 'the blood of Jesus Christ his Son cleanseth us from all sin,' and Isaiah's statement, 'Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.' How can anything as red as blood make something so clean and white? Yet when I glance at some of the coloured liquids in the supermarket that I put my faith in to physically make my shirts clean and white, I begin to see why I put my spiritual faith in the power of His blood to cleanse me and I know He can remove even the toughest stain. My blood could never have done it but Jesus rose to meet the challenge. And you know, you don't have to wait until Monday!

W is for WEARY

Dad was a great footballer, though I never saw him play a match. By the time I was born he had already hung up the old boots, but there were still plenty of witnesses around that could testify to his ability. He was a bustling centre forward, a striker in the modern age, who put his head or foot in where others feared to tread. He played in a era when the ball only came in one colour, brown, and on a wet afternoon, weighed more than the average sack of potatoes. Boots were made for kicking the ball or man or even the referee and not just for show and they covered the foot up towards the calf. There were no floodlights, no changing rooms or showers and often the cattle had to be cleared off the pitch before kick-off. I'm not sure whether nets were used but the crowd enjoyed the craic because it was a real social occasion when the whole neighbourhood went along. Dad mostly played for a team known as Greenhall and though it wasn't the Premier League, players were recruited from far and wide, though they all spoke the same language! During his career he had one bad injury, breaking his right leg and although he eventually recovered to play again, it always looked peculiar with the lower half not pointing in the direction it should have faced. As he grew much older, he seemed to be constantly rubbing Olive Oil into his knee as the pains from years of proper care set in and tortured him constantly. Mum said that he was partly to blame for the strange shape of the leg as he had continued to try and kick a ball around casually while still in plaster and he didn't deny it.

By the time I was old enough to play with him, he was around fifty and although he couldn't have played a match he was still more than able to cope with me and could strike a ball as hard and accurately as anyone and with either foot. We often played for ages against the end gable of the house when he came home from the market with yours truly in goal for most of the time, trying to stop a succession of thunderbolts hit with the outside of his foot and swerving in on the intended target. And he loved nothing better than to see me helpless as another piledriver found the back of the net or, more correctly, knocked another piece of dash off the wall. Once his accuracy left him and the ball would go flying past the gable and land on the kitchen floor in the middle of a pile of glass that had accompanied it through the window. But it was an extremely rare occurrence for him to miss the target and I could only imagine that he terrorised many a defence during his time. Mostly he played in the brown boots that he had worn to market but sometimes appeared in his wellington boots and he was still a handful. However as we both got older, he ran after the ball less and less, was more content to be the goalkeeper and our sessions got shorter until they finally stopped. But I still remember them vividly, always glad he found the time and am just sorry that his senior years eventually made him weary.

I found myself thinking about him now that my own lads are growing up. And I remember too the time I spent with them in the garden, shooting in to the nets or throwing a rugby ball about. There was a time when after dad would retire to the house, I would play on for hours on my own till I too got weary and had to call it a day. But as I have got older, the weariness sets in just a little bit earlier every year and I now understand why, despite my pleadings, he knew when to stop.

Sometimes I get weary in my spiritual struggle, when I lose my energy for the fight and when I just don't seem to have the strength to keep on kicking away the fiery darts. But Paul encourages me as he writes to the Galatians by saying, 'Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.' and Isaiah tells me to look to God for my help when he writes, 'He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak,' while God himself tells Jeremiah, ' I will refresh the weary and satisfy the faint.' And when Jesus announces, 'Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest,' then I know that the weariness is only for a short time. Tomorrow there's another game to play.