B is for BREAD

The choice used to be very simple. Plain or pan? We had a breadman who called once every week from Inglis bakeries in Belfast, although he lived just down the road. At some stage the name changed to Mother's Pride and apart from bread, he also carried a substantial quantity of crisps for young upstarts like me who would inquisitively appear at the side of his van when mum was getting her order together. The bread van had long wooden drawers that pulled out, a bit like normal kitchen, but about a million times longer and he had this strange long pole contraption that enabled him to drag bread from the front of the van, about another hundred yards up the road. Well it seemed that way to a six year old! And there was so much bread. Freshly baked big plain loaves with the brown crust on top and lots of pan loaves wrapped in their Mother's Pride coats. But the choice was still simple. Plain or pan? Oh yes, the breadman carried other types of bread, but we had no need to buy them for mum was a keen baker and a couple of bags of flour was all she needed to be able to produce both wheaten and soda that was to the liking of dad. Often, teatime was nothing more than a couple of plates of a variety of these breads and a pot or two of damson and strawberry jam - a feast fit for a king!

The choice is less simple now. Plain or pan? Or maybe baguette, or wholegrain, or bran, or nutty, or linseed, or crustless, or stayfresh, or thick sliced, or finger rolls, or ciabatta, or baps, or wholemeal, or bagels, or focaccia, or pita, or fruit bread, or naan bread, or cheese bread, or garlic bread. I'm not sure dad could have coped with the choice, but I guess he would still have plumped for the soda! The breadman stopped coming a long time ago. Supermarkets saw to that but it made the simple job of buying a loaf that much more complicated because of the range available. And with that, also comes the problem of keeping the bread fresh for longer for although it is still generally regarded as our staple diet food, the choice of foods is so wide that the humble loaf can often sit lonely in the corner for much of the week. We often buy a baguette at the weekend as one son could demolish most of it at a single sitting. However, if it sits until the next day, the hardness has begun to creep in and within another twenty four hours its texture has become tooth breaking. So generally the rule for us is, don't buy it unless it's going to be used on the day of purchase.

A French friend of mine has an unusual way of eating his baguette at breakfast. As we sat one morning in his kitchen, he added significant layers of butter and jam to his sliced piece, then promptly plunged it into his black coffee before scoffing it. I think we both felt slightly uneasy that his guests would not be following that old adage, 'when in Rome etc..' but it was interesting to see how others approach such matters and I'm sure he finds toast a similarly strange experience. So why do we eat bread? I suppose it's an inexpensive way to feed a family and it does provide nourishment and energy and I guess most of us would admit to eating a slice or two in some form almost every day.

When Jesus taught His followers to pray, using what we commonly call 'The Lord's Prayer', the phrase 'Give us each day our daily bread,' comes immediately after our initial recognition of who God is. This request is not about our physical needs but is asking God to feed us and sustain us with His spiritual power and just like we need physical sustenance everyday, so we need His power in our lives every day as we battle against the forces of darkness. Jesus also reminds me that while eating bread gives me physical strength, it cannot ultimately prolong my life when my body wears out but says, ' I am the living bread that came down from heaven. If anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever. This bread is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world.'

During communion I remember that He did give his flesh for my life and I do so by sharing and eating bread as a symbol of recognition of His sacrifice for me. Bread of Life? The choice is very simple. I hope I've made it plain enough.

B is for BRIDGE

There's a large metal bridge about three or four miles from our house. It spans the River Blackwater near a large country house and because of tits narrowness, it is unwise for two vehicles to pass on it and probably impossible anyway. When I was young, it looked really huge and terrifying,. partly because the approach from both sides is shrouded in trees and creates a dark and mysterious scene. To be truthful, I was never really happy until we had travelled beyond its length and in retrospect, I'm not sure if it was just the sight of the metal semi-circles rising on both sides, the significant drop to the river or the actual expanse of water that I tried hard to avoid having eye contact with as we crossed. Probably a mixture of all three. The metal sides rose to a height of about ten to fifteen feet and were a mass of bars at various angles, like two huge one hundred and eighty degrees protractors stuck on to the two sides of a road. There were warning signs on both approaches, indicating the need for care and to not attempt to enter the bridge if another vehicle was already crossing. Since those early days, I have been across its length hundreds of times, but I still remember how I felt all those years ago and there is still a certain uneasiness within that no other bridge creates.

That apprehension is hardly helped by a story my dad often told of how when he was a teenager, he had once climbed to the very top of the one of the sides and dived into the water below. In itself, this was a feat of extreme bravery for the drop must be all of twenty five feet but it was also bravery without much prior planning as he couldn't swim a stroke. Often the thought went through my mind, how he had coped when he hit the water or was it not so deep at the time, in which case, why had the dive not done damage in itself. Also there was the question of hard objects lurking below the surface that I presume he hadn't thought about checking for. Anyway, I try not to dwell on it too long but I do know that he did it for there were enough witnesses to the feat of courage or madness.

We once had two small wooden bridges that allowed us to cross a small drain or stream from one field into another. They saved a lot of time when checking the cattle in both fields and were actually no more than two railway sleepers thrown down across the width of the river. One had a small oval hole about its midpoint where a knot of wood had once been but it was the more steady and sturdy of the pair. As a young boy, it often gave me a little shiver when I crossed though the water beneath was only a few inches deep. Hoof prints on each side showed that many cows had approached but had not ventured beyond the edge though they had watched two legged creatures cross regularly. Time is never kind to wood and several years ago, one of the footbridges, having rotted sufficiently on both banks sank into the shallow waters beneath to be followed some time later by the other so the only way to reach the field on the other side is now by road, a longer journey by far.

Bridges are a necessary part of our lives, whether to cross roads, railways, rivers or seas. We often hear about building bridges between individuals, families, communities, nations, religious denominations, even different religions. Songwriters have penned such famous titles as 'Bridge over Troubled Water', 'Love can build a bridge', London Bridge,' and '59th Street Bridge Song.' And preachers often refer to the fact that Jesus is the bridge back to God. It's strange then that the word 'bridge' doesn't appear in the Bible even once. That puzzled me until I realised that bridges are really only temporary structures. Yes they may last for many, many years but rust, decay, subsidence and a whole host of natural factors stand in their way of permanency. Jesus is a permanent road to our Father, not a bridge. He is everlasting and there is nothing to fear for He carries us from darkness to light, from death to life and there is no going back. He says, ' I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.' Have you enough faith to trust Him. John says, 'whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.' That sounds pretty permanent to me!

B is for BIRD

I once owned an owl. It used to perch just above the front door with a fierce scowl on its face and two eyes constantly staring into the distance. All day it just sat there and never moved and never made a hoot of a sound. It couldn't, for I had fixed it firmly with a large nail, hammered through its plastic body, to the wooden fascia board just below the roof. I had bought it in one of those do-it-yourself stores with the promise that it would scare away prospective feathered intruders from building under the tiles. It didn't! I'm not sure why I ever thought it would for I reckon a sparrow clinging to the wing of a low flying fighter jet would have spotted it as a fake. After all, it never spoke, never moved, reflected the sun's rays off its shiny plastic and sometimes hung upside down or spun like a cartwheel when the wind blew too strong.

Anyway the birds kept on building. Often the only sign that a new home was being erected was the odd dropped twig or few pieces of straw or dried grass that appeared on the ground below. I decided action was required since none of the new dwellers were offering to contribute to the mortgage and thought that it would be best if they were evicted before the their children came along and grannies and grandas came to visit for the weekend. They worked all hours and sometimes the noise at night was deafening as they lined their sitting room with a new load of material that had just been flown in. I began with the nest most accessible by ladder, pushing the tiles upwards to reveal the interior, a bit like peering into a doll's house by lifting off the roof. It took two full buckets of straw / twigs / hay to clear it and decided in true Mastermind that I'd started so I'd finish. The other nest was more difficult to reach but eventually it was also served with an eviction order and all was quiet again. For a week or two! More debris on the ground was the evidence, but it had also appeared in one or two new places, which was most disconcerting. I didn't tackle the problem immediately this time, due to the pressure of other commitments and then one day I noticed that the birds were no longer carrying twigs but worms and the nest had suddenly begun to make chirping noises!

It was too late to do anything now and I set about devising a plan to discourage them from returning after their children had 'flown the nest' so to speak. I thought of throwing things at them, hosing their nests with water, though this might have had serious repercussions for our ceilings. I even considered a catapult and a pellet gun. To make matters worse, they hadn't considered the need for an inside toilet and were quite happy to use the walls and windows at the front of the house, giving a new meaning to the phrase 'pebble dashed'. Often they would hold all night parties in the nest just above our bedroom and on at least one occasion I had to tap the ceiling quite hard to remind them that the landlord was trying to sleep. But the biggest annoyance of all was when they or their friends chose to perch, bottoms out, on the top of the gable end, just above our glass-roofed conservatory. I think it's enough to say that I learned most of them were pretty fond of blackberries! As for the owl, he frowned all the way to the rubbish bin. On other visits to the DIY stores, I've seen some of his relatives preying on unsuspecting customers and have been tempted to unladen some of my dissatisfaction on them but they all seem so unhappy, with that same frown, that I haven't the heart to deny them a little bit of fresh air. The real birds have been back all year, reared their families and gone off for their winter holidays and I can't even get a day to Portrush!

Jesus says. 'Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?' I guess that's the lesson my feathered friends teach me, that my Father will meet my needs and will care for me because I am valuable to Him. In fact I am His child, part of His extended family. But I reckon my plastic friend had a message too for when Jesus is truly real to you, it shows - in your face, in your words and in your actions. And anyway, He knows His own.. Doesn't that ruffle your feathers just a little bit?

B is for BALLOON

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Partly scientific and mostly good fun. Along with her primary four class, wife had decided to have a balloon launch and see how far the balloons could travel. There was much to prepare in advance. The children had to learn why just blowing up balloons with a pump or with our own air would be likely to be less successful than filling them with Helium which was lighter than air and would not only ensure a good take-off but would be likely to help the balloons travel so much further. The children had to agree what to write on labels that would be attached to the balloons and how they might reward the contact from the greatest distance away. For a class of around twenty five it was a huge, exciting event and as the day drew nearer the feeling of anticipation grew. Labels were written, informing anyone who found the balloon, where it had been released and requesting them to contact the school by telephone.

On the day, excitement among the primary fours was at fever pitch and they all paraded out into the playground in the early afternoon and waited excitedly. A cylinder of helium arrived on time and a mouthful or two of this strange gas produced unusual squeaking voices that kept them amused while the balloons were inflated and labels attached. When all was ready, a quick countdown and the helium filled pieces of plastic / rubber were off and into the sky, exiting in a southerly direction. Soon, apart from one or two that didn't make it beyond the first hurdle and got stuck in the tall trees around the perimeter, they were all beyond the scope of the naked eye and heading off on their holidays. With nothing to see, the initial excitement died down but the anticipation of a contact took over. And we didn't have to wait long. Later that afternoon, a brief phone call from Kilkeel assured us that at least some of the balloons had already reached the coast. If they continued to move in this south-west direction, the rest of the United Kingdom was well within their reach, providing the Irish Sea did not claim them. The next day, a second phone call from Aberystwyth in Wales showed the speed of the movement and within another day or two a call from the south of England brought even greater encouragement. My wife more than a little pleased, especially since France didn't seem out of the question. And when she answered the phone to a lady later that week and to be greeted by 'Bonjour madam', I could see her visibly quiver with excitement. I know I shouldn't have done, but it seemed too good an opportunity to miss and after all, the French teacher at my previous school in County Down was keen to help out. I don't know what French sounds like with a Kilkeel accent but I guess wife never picked up on the nuances, such was her delight at hearing another speak a language that she spoke fluently herself. It was a triumph of sorts that a balloon could have reached a country that had a fond place in her heart and I hadn't the heart to shatter her dream. But I did! Anyway, she's still with me and to be fair, she's got her own back on many occasions.

A few years ago, we repeated the whole experiment, but with a few minor alterations, mainly me promising to be good this time. But we also had each balloon sponsored by parents and friends and instead of just one class, we had balloons for the whole school, about one hundred and sixty. They were launched on our parents' evening in late June to the sound of the orchestral film score from 2001, A Space Odyssey playing in the background. And what a sight and sound it was as the mass of colours floated beyond the trees, over the golf course and into the space beyond the clouds, a fitting climax to the evening.

I often wonder how the disciples felt as they stood with Jesus just before He left them to return to His Father in Heaven. Luke tells us in the first chapter of Acts the 'he was taken up before their very eyes, and a cloud hid him from their sight.' He goes on to remark that 'they were looking intently up into the sky as he was going.' What a sight that must have been, to see the man they had known for just a short time but who had risen from the grave and had the marks to prove it, rise into the sky and be gone. But that's where any similarity with pour experiments ends for two angels reminded the disciples that 'This same Jesus, who has been taken from you into heaven, will come back in the same way you have seen him go into heaven.'

If you or I had been there with them, I'm sure we would have been shocked by the sight of Him going. But how shocked will you be when He returns?

B is for BARRIER

They began to appear in the early seventies, first in the major cities like Belfast and Londonderry, then in most towns and eventually even the smallest village had some sort of barrier erected. Initially they were makeshift, blockages, comprising mostly of a few barrels filled with sand and stretching across part of the road with maybe a metal pole that could be raised or lowered by someone on duty, but before too long it was obvious that a less temporary obstruction was going to be necessary and so long gates were hung on pillars allowing any duty officer to open and close them with more ease. No longer were they restricted to just entry and exit points from certain areas but barriers started to surface at the entrance to many major buildings and offices and there was a rapid increase in the number of security guards being deployed at various establishments. At some barriers, it was necessary to show some form of identification, at others photographs were taken and at many, the reason for needing to go beyond the barrier had to be given. In the evening, the gates were closed and locked and nobody was permitted to go beyond them until the next opening the following day. But anyone really wanting to get to the area where access was denied could usually find a way if they had the desire. And most terrorists had more than enough desire. Yet while the barriers reduced the options in one area they often created problems in another. It is impossible to render a whole city or town impenetrable so when bombs could not be planted in one area, another was chosen. But he mind of the terrorist is much more ingenious than those who do not think of such things and they always seemed to find ways around the barriers. Sometimes, the explosive devices were hung on the barrier gates, with reckless disregard for security personnel and passers-by. Often they were carried in on foot, before the days when almost everyone was searched when entering either a street or a shop. Several times, innocent delivery drivers were forced to carry such devices beyond the barriers to prevent hurt or worse to their immediate family members and when security was tightened even more, the explosives were launched as rockets outside the area and usually from a carefully reconstructed vehicle that camouflaged the occupants' intentions.

Villages were probably more easily protected since many only had a main street with an entry or exit point at each end. In the initial years, the barriers at both ends were usually closed at around tea time and remained so until about seven the next morning. Residents who needed access in or out or any other individual who had a reason for being in the village could move freely through one of the two barriers that remained 'manned' at all times. As tensions increased, however, our local village remained closed at one end all the time, an action which tended to inconvenience the law abiding folk more so than the terrorist. For several years our local school bus route had to be diverted around the village, along a more minor country road and as all other traffic was similarly affected, it presented its own problems for drivers. For shops and businesses within the villages and towns, lack of access or more correctly lack of ease of access meant that many shoppers stayed away or at least visited more infrequently and, coupled with the constant threat of explosions in the vicinity, many store owners found it difficult to survive in business. Night life disappeared, towns and cities were deserted after dark as most people plumped for the safety of their own houses. Then, one day the barriers started to come down, not all at the same time and some for only short periods of the day. And life began to show some degree of normality. Eventually, years later the bulldozers and diggers arrived and by the time our sons were old enough to understand, there was nothing only history to tell them. And it wasn't all doom and gloom. Many town and city centres that had become pedestrianised of necessity, remained so and became safer places to be and out of town shopping centres began to appear.

I suppose I'm not the most open person in the world and sometimes choose to erect a barrier when someone gets too close. It's never out of a sense of fear nor dislike but more a case of protecting my innermost self from the prying eyes of others. Like any barrier, I make the choice of who is allowed to go beyond it and even then what they are allowed access to. I think everyone is the same to a greater or lesser degree though others may have different reasons for their actions. And you know it does bring a level of security to life.

Some people erect barriers to God and to the faith of His followers. It also provides a level of security, stopping them even being approached on the subject. But, with God, there is no barrier to our inner thoughts for He knows them even before we think them. And there is no barrier to God, since Jesus removed the last obstacle of death though His resurrection. Paul tells us 'For he himself is our peace, who has made the two one and has destroyed the barrier, the dividing wall of hostility.' Life is better since the barriers came down and life with God is certainly better than trying to exclude Him from our lives. But be warned! Just like the shoppers stopped coming into town, there may come a time when God just doesn't wait outside your barrier any longer. You know, some people never returned to town.

B is for BICYCLE

My first experience of a bicycle ride was from slightly removed from the handlebars - a red seat fixed to the rear of my mother's old black bike. I don't remember much more than being brought home from school in the early years and I guess with at least four large inclines to negotiate on the way, it must have tested her mental and physical durability, especially with a few extra kilos on behind. Even when she dismounted and walked up the odd hill, I don't recall being taken out of the red seat so I really wasn't much help at all.

I only ever owned two bikes. The first, probably bought out of necessity, when I became old enough to make the journey to and from school as the pilot rather than the passenger, was a simple enough affair. Not a full sized vehicle by any means, but with all the necessary equipment to make one proud to be its owner. Rounded handlebars, a bell and of course a crossbar that separated the boys from the girls. To the uninitiated eye, like mine, it was perfect and it fulfilled its purpose day after day as I pedalled the well worn track from home to school and back, a shattering distance of one and a half miles. Except of course on the days when dad 'threw' ( and I don't use that word lightly) my two wheeler into the boot of the car and 'banged' ( I wish he had done that more lightly) down the lid of his Morris Oxford. It eventually settled on my blue crossbar with artistic effect and a certain amount of random engraving. I reckoned it was a fair price to pay, however, to avoid the scourge of McDowell's Hill at eight thirty on a winter morning.

They say everything comes around in cycles but sometime after graduating from primary school, I found my legs longer than the bike intended them to be and with Christmas fast approaching, my request list would be short and sweet and very cyclical! My new Raleigh (supposed to be the Mercedes of bicycles) got off to a bad start. Snow fell on Christmas Eve and for much of the following morning so all practice sessions had to be cancelled, though I did manage a rather precarious attempt to remain upright in the melting slush late on Christmas Day. Still, the bike was there the following morning so there was no immediate rush except that childhood impatience is not always easily quenched. I had however, now moved to a full size machine, complete with off-white rimmed tyres, a bell, which I would learn how to take apart early in my cycling career and a three speed gear system that was operated by twisting the right handlebar grip, akin to the accelerator on a motor bike. During my ownership, this machine served no useful purpose apart from the pursuit of leisure and females who were happy to rest on the crossbar for a free lift home and I always 'grudgingly' obliged! It was this bike that took me far from home on tours with my neighbour, Tom, though in effect we were never more than five miles from the front door and during its lifetime was fitted with a variety of attachments, some fashionable, others helpful but none absolutely necessary and these included a speedometer, a mileometer, radio, bells and horns, battery lights, reflectors, saddlebag, drinking bottle and even a mirror or two. All of them worked for a season but were eventually discarded, like the bike itself, when a less exhausting mode of transport came within my age-related reach.

Since those heady days of cycledom, my only two serious encounters with the two wheeler have been, ironically, in France, home of Le Tour. First in the wild forests around Chambord chateau in the Loire valley, on a hot June afternoon, along with about sixty other people of varying ages, abilities and stamina as our school joined with Dutch children and our French hosts to discover that cycling in another language is no different.More recently, on the shores of Lake Annecy, I again remembered the freedom of the bicycle with wife as we nonchalantly pedalled southwards along a former railway track, now cycle path in pursuit of nothing more than fresh air, scenery and the simple things in life. It was a time to view God's wonderful creation and the chance to be a child all over again.

In this age of fast-paced living, we need sometimes to 'get on the bicycle' and see things from a slower and different perspective where life is no more complicated than choosing the correct gear and making time to take in the view. And the view is not bad at all for it reminds me constantly of a creator who was meticulous in His design and unerringly accurate in his construction. It really is that simple.Seeing the world from a child's eyes again without the judgements and cynicism of adulthood. And seeing God as He wants us to see Him, without all the attachments and rules that often hide His true person from us. As Jesus said 'unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.' Time to start pedalling!

B is for BLOSSOM

It's usually a pinky-white flower and begins to appear in early May. Before long, however, every apple tree is completely covered in it, like an adorning crown or an expensive coat. Orchards become a mass of white colour with just the slightest hint of pink and it's a truly beautiful sight. So wonderful in fact that tours are organised to view the spectacle, a week is devoted to an Apple Blossom Festival that includes church flower festivals, special apple-based menus in local restaurants, garden fetes and fairs, apple blossom queens, dances, vintage tractor and car rallies, town markets with an apple flavour, apple tarts with ice cream and cider sampling sessions. Why there's even an apple blossom Sunday when everyone is supposed to get out their vehicles and have a tour around the local roads and view the flowers on the trees. But we are not alone.

By the wonders of the web I have discovered that our friends across the big pond are equally into their apple blossom festivals with probably a slightly more razzmatazz feel to the American celebrations that us County Armagh folk are likely to express. Still we must be thankful that our creator bestowed such the apples on our beautiful county when he had so many others to choose from. Yes it really is the garden of Ireland. The funny thing is though that amidst all our celebrations of the great Bramley, there's not a single fruit on the tree in May!

This past year was a bit strange, because for some reason, call it global warming if you wish, the blossom came earlier and the all the orchards were in full bloom before the festival got under way. By the time the bus tours were winding through the country roads much many of the little white flowers had already nestled in the grass underneath the trees and a couple of days of strong breezes brought them plenty of company. How's that for timing?

We have one tree left in our garden, a remnant from an earlier orchard. to be honest we don't pay much attention to its well-being but every year it blooms as well as most others in the countryside. But like every tree, there's a long, long way to go before that bloom produces any fruit and by the end of May the flowers and the bees are all gone and other forces are at work deep in the heart of every apple ovary. It's not long before the smallest of apples begin to appear where the blossom was and, for the next couple of months they simply grow and grow until harvest time. But it only takes another big wind to dislodge them from their lofty perches and often by late September, the trees that looked laden in August are somewhat lighter, with a mixture of large, beautifully formed fruit and small, insignificant apples. Which is where our tree comes back in to the story. Like I said, we don't tend it much during the year, expecting it to do the business every harvest but most years the apples are no larger than golf balls and usually covered with imperfections and stains. I know what I need to do to improve it. I just haven't got round to doing it yet.

So what am I thinking. I'm thinking that apple blossom is no indicator of how big, how much or how good the apple crop will be. I'm thinking that a lot has to happen before harvest and the care of the farmer is vital. But I'm thinking that other things can affect the trees at any stage. And I'm thinking that the blossom of new birth for a Christian is only the start. How many have fallen along the way because of other things that shake them? How many have not paid attention to cultivating their faith after that initial blossom has gone? How many have produced smaller fruit than they should have? And how many never produced any fruit at all? Isaiah tells us that 'The grass withers and the flowers fall, but the word of our God stands forever.' That is how we tend to the fruit when the blossom has gone by growing in His word and finding our nourishment from within its pages. Taste and see!

B is for BABY

I've always been slightly suspicious of babies. I used to hang around with them and for a while was one of them. That being the case, I should know how they think, but my memory of that time isn't all that great and I'm not sure if I thought much as a baby anyway. I would have loved to have written down my memories during that first couple of years of pram life, or even told someone, but my writing skills were poor and my vocabulary probably amounted to little more than 'ga ga' 'da da' and 'ma ma', not entirely adequate for expressing one's innermost thoughts to the rest of the world, who seem to be completely satisfied that I have nothing important to say at one year old! As to whether I was a good baby or not, I'm completely dependent on someone else's opinion since I have no recollection of my own and since I'm more a 'factual' sort of person myself, I tend to regard such opinions with a little indifference and a greater amount of disbelief. And aren't most babies similar anyway. They sleep when you're awake, waken when it's your bedtime and cry at the most inopportune moments but mostly as a call for nourishment or because they ache somewhere. Soon, however, they discover that tears are better than words for demanding something, though this turns out to be successful only in the short term, until the doting parents catch on.

Our firstborn cried for three months, but only at night, when colic reared its ugly head. You could have set your alarm clock by him, for the pains always came in the late evening and could last until daylight and often did. I almost became addicted to gripe water! Imagine that! Ending up, drying out at the Betty Ford Clinic and explaining that it all started with a bit of colic while my son grows up a well adjusted young man! Still, when the second baby arrived home and appeared to be intent on the same pattern of nocturnal behaviour, only with more volume, action was needed and came in the form of a local minister who prayed for babies with colic. And while we hadn't prayed for that, we had been given two and we understood his gift for helping us. That night of the phone call was the last we ever heard about colic and it did prove that God works in mysterious ways.

Like most new parents, many things changed for us when little feet arrived. Our grocery list regularly included little jars of less than appetising baby food, rusks, powdered milk, dried packet food, nappies, cream (not for strawberries either), cotton wool and of course a few litres of gripe water, for whoever wanted it. A whole new set of equipment arrived too with the Moses basket soon giving way to a cot and then a proper bed, a high chair, playpen, pram and buggy for the public viewing sessions, car seats and stair gates as little feet began to wander. Routines became established and the day's activities were based around the smallest people in the family. Holidays were restructured, no longer to suit our needs and every cough or sneeze was investigated thoroughly. But we enjoyed every minute of it and while at times we wondered what the babies would grow up to be, each year brought a little more independence and more importantly God kept a hand on their young lives.

My sister-in-law has two babies now, though one is more of a toddler. I empathise with her for she has reached the stage that , for us, seems light years ago now. It's not always a comfort to tell her that the difficult days will pass, but they do and more quickly than we expect and it's not uncommon when they're gone, to wish for just a few more of those times, for we never get a second chance at rearing a child and every baby is different. Still, I laugh when I think of the Health care advisor who came to our house to 'support' us with our first baby but who clearly had no personal experience of rearing babies except for the knowledge she gleaned from her trusted textbooks. There's no substitute for learning on the job and no childcare book was ever written that can prepare a parent for the unique characteristics of their newborn baby.

Yet don't we often show the same spiritual ignorance. The world is full of Bible scholars, of learned memory verses, of scripture quotations but that doesn't mean we have ever experienced the real Jesus in our lives. Too many of us our still babies, as Paul expressed in Hebrews, 'In fact, though by this time you ought to be teachers, you need someone to teach you the elementary truths of God's word all over again. You need milk, not solid food.' You see, there's a time to move beyond the milk, to put away the toys and to feed on something which gives us greater spiritual strength and builds us up. It's time to get up and discover life beyond your playpen. And don't be afraid, your Father's just beside you!

H is for HEADPHONES

Whether we call them headphones or earphones, they're all around us. Mostly attached to ipods or mp3 players, but still occasionally joined to a little portable radio, they have become an essential addition and fashion icon of the new century. It's not uncommon to see an ardent football fan at a game on a Saturday afternoon with a little length of wire dangling from his coat pocket and stretching all the way to his ears, as he checks on the progress of all the other teams playing. But you are probably more likely to witness on any day around town, several individuals in another world, as they walk about, oblivious to most things except the music they have chosen to get them through their day. And isn't that the key point of such players, being able to listen to your type of songs and not disturb those who are not in tune with your musical leanings. Indeed most professional sports stars now their music players to block out everything before a game and help them to focus on the mathc ahead. And while I love the freedom that headphones bring, sometimes I long to share an individual moment of musical ecstasy with another person and can't do that because we can't both hear at the same time. This summer, on holidays, I bought a connector that would allow me to share such moments with hers truly, only to discover that one set of earphones had broken and the magic moments were lost.

My first set of headphones arrived with our first proper hi fi system, but I never used them much initially. Then one day, shortly after starting university, I splashed out a small part of my grant on a neat little tape deck so that I could compile some of my favourite album tracks on cassette. The deck had no amplifier so the only option was to plug in the old headphones to the relevant socket. Unfortunately, there was no volume control either, so the volume listened at was generally the volume recorded, which on occasions was 'slightly' loud! This may be one of the reasons that my hearing is less good than it should be now but anyway, the trusty tape deck did the job for years and I disturbed nobody with my music. Often I would listen to music in this way after I had gone to bed and waken up the following morning to discover that the deck was still in the 'play' position even though the tape had long since finished. I'm sure that this had something to do with the fact that the music seemed to play slightly faster than intended after a while!

It became something of a habit after that, for when the tape deck eventually became redundant after years of gathering dust at the bedside, it was replaced with a radio / cassette player, then subsequently by a CD player, a mini disc player and, more recently an ipod, all with proper volume controls. For a while I experimented with a variety of headphones, some that fitted over the ear, some in the ear and some just cushioning the ear. Others had volume controls on the sides, some had little rotary knobs at the base and some still had none at all. The key to a good set of phones for listening to music in bed is that they don't feel uncomfortable after a longtime and don't 'dig in' to your ears. I think I've found the perfect set, so perfect in fact that when I bought them, I ended up buying two sets! But they're more difficult to find in the shops now since the advent of the little portable players where the earphones themselves are as much a fashion statement as the players they are attached to.

Headphones or Earphones are a great way to listen to music. Honestly! The spaciousness you feel inside your head as various instruments and voices explode at different points between your ears allows you to become more intimate with the music and even to hear those little nuances that are sometimes missed altogether when listening in the car or in a room at home. It's strange then that sound engineers never recommend 'mixing' a song on headphones in a recording studio as it is difficult to assess correctly levels of some instruments, especially those at the bass end of the sound spectrum. And most sound experts will tell you that the majority of music is intended for listening on loudspeakers. To put it simply, headphones are second best.

I don't want God's second best for my life. But if I choose to block out much of what He wants to say to me, I may find that I end up getting just that. And if I only listen in the way that I want to, I may never hear His voice when He calls. Worse still if I never listen at all, I miss out on everything including His salvation. I love the reply the man whom Jesus healed from blindness gave to the Pharisees when they questioned Him several times about who had cured him. He said 'I have told you already and you did not listen. Why do you want to hear it again?' Even with headphones on I can still hear things going on around me. It's just that I don't listen. Are you a listener or just a hearer. Jesus said, 'He who has ears to hear, let him hear.' Are you listening?

H is for HAPPINESS

So what makes you happy? I've been thinking about this all week. I've even looked up the dictionary to make sure that I understand exactly what happiness means and I come across a wide range of words that are meant to express all the emotions that I feel when I'm happy. Pleasure, bliss, delight, contentedness, satisfaction, even exhilaration. Another version told me that Happiness results from possessing or obtaining what is considered to be good so now I'm faced with a far bigger choice than where I originally started out on this voyage of discovery. So keeping all those in mind I try to think what makes me happy.

I suppose, like most kids growing up, my state of happiness certainly increased around birthdays and Christmas when presents arrived but it was a strange, fleeting sort of happiness that often depended on the present itself. Most young boys don't really want socks, jumpers or the like for a present when there is a whole world of exciting gadgets and toys out there. Could the giver of such gifts not see these shops in the high streets? Did they not have children of their own? Anyway, as long as they didn't notice the smile of false happiness that stretched across my face, all would be well. Strangely enough, as the year went on, these presents were the ones that provided the most value and best met my needs, so they weren't so far off the mark after all.

At some stage I began to discover that a certain degree of happiness was attached to giving things to others so I used to save up enough pocket money to at least have something small for mum or dad at Christmas. In later years, this became so much more important than anything they would buy me and I suppose it made me happy that I could repay them in some small way for being there for me as I grew up. But all that tends to fly in the face of the dictionary definition of happiness.

But happiness isn't restricted to just giving and getting. Sometimes it's a wonderful emotion brought about by our circumstances. In football, happiness was always seeing Liverpool win trophies and none brought greater delight than the Champions League victory in Istanbul a few years ago, but sometimes I'm not sure if it's happiness borne out of being able to 'gloat' about our team to supporters of others or relief that we don't have to run the gauntlet of abuse if our teams lose. In any case, it's a very transient thing for if they lose the next game, all the success is forgotten very quickly. Strangely too, much of a football supporter's happiness is from seeing their greatest rivals lose rather than their own team win, a very warped way of being delighted.

When I played rugby, winning cups always brought happiness but even when we won any game, that satisfaction largely depended on your own performance so you could win a very important game but still feel not particularly happy. At one stage, when we were on a major winning streak, I remember feeling no emotion of happiness after some games, simply because we hadn't played well as a team nor I as an individual.

Getting married brought a different sort of happiness, though that one is a bit difficult to describe in words, so let's just say it brings a contentedness that being single doesn't offer. When the babies came along, that was another different ball game of happiness and I think that's when you really begin to marvel at the wonder of God's creation. And for us, there has been no unhappy time with children so I guess God has blessed us in a special way with our family. We've enjoyed seeing them enjoy Christmas, visiting wonderful places on holiday, seeing them be successful in different areas of their lives and just found happiness in watching them grow up into young men.

When I was much, much younger, we used to sing a song at Sunday school which went something like this -I'm H A P P Y, I'm H A P P Y, I know I am I'm sure I am, I'm H A P P Y. Each letter of the word HAPPY was sung on each beat and we all knew it by rote. The other verses substituted the word HAPPY with LOVED and then SAVED but the more I read the Bible, the less I'm convinced that the word 'happy' really describes that feeling adequately. For at the end of the day, happiness is a state of mind, largely dependent on our circumstances. I'm even more convinced when I read James ch 1 v 2 where he writes, 'Consider it pure joy, my brothers, whenever you face trials of many kinds.' This joy is not about the happiness of circumstances for humanly speaking, it isn't possible to be happy when things go wrong in our lives or tragedies strike our family unit. This type of happiness is an inner joy, brought about by our assurance that regardless of our situation, God is always with us and we have the joy of knowing His presence at all times, good and bad.

As our eldest son reaches 21, it brings great pleasure to know that both of the boys have a steadfast and growing faith in their creator. I guess that's happiness and joy all rolled into one!

H is for HISTORY

History didn't really excite me at school, but that's all in past now! The trouble was that not much of it was relevant to me, a young schoolboy, living deep in the heart of the Orchard county of Northern Ireland. We learned about the Saxons and the Normans, bout the War of the Roses, about Motte and Bailey castles, about 1066 and all that, about Picts and Celts, about cavemen and about Prime Ministers of Britain in centuries gone by. It was all very interesting stuff but the text books that stored all the information were not particularly stimulating and resources amounted to a few old maps or grey sketches of an artist's impression. We had no dramatic reconstructions on video or DVD, no TV programmes, no interactive CDs and not even any all colour books full of vivid pictures. So imaginations worked overtime and if you spent the period daydreaming you had no pictures at all, of that lesson. And the teacher couldn't really make it any more vivid for he or she had been there or lived through what they were trying to make interesting.

As I teach Vikings to young ten year olds this year, they have every resource but a real live Norseman and I could probably get that too if it was needed. They can build a longhouse, construct a longboat, find interactive websites and visitor centres, dress up as a Viking, know what these people ate and drank, study full colour illustrations of every aspect of Viking life and by the end will know more about the Vikings than the Vikings did. But that's not really what brings it to life for them. Instead it's the fact that Vikings were at one stage, very close to our village. Similarly when we studied Victorians last year, it wasn't our Victorian Day or dressing up or even the multitude of colour books that made the biggest impact, but the fact that they could see the ruins of buildings that once were famine hospitals or soup kitchens and walk in the estate whose walls had been built and whose trees had been planted during the Victorian period. You see, in some sense, history only comes alive when we can link it to ourselves.
I think that's why we're all so interested in family trees, in the history of our neighbourhood, out town or local village, why we often love to look at old records of the inhabitants of our townlands and try to link present day names with the past. When dad was live I used to marvel at the local history locked away inside his head. It was my desire to write it all down and so preserve it in some form for the future but I never got round to doing it and while I remember much of what he told me, the intricate details are essentially missing and have gone for ever. I'm not alone in wishing I had taken the time with him for many of my friends feel equally sorry that they did not record their own parents' ramblings about the past, such was the wealth of local history that each could offer. But the other important thing is that they spoke about their history because it was real, because they lived through it and because it happened all around them. For they not only knew the stories, they saw them happen.

I often wondered how they had such a collection of interesting anecdotes on offer but now as I get older myself, I can see why, for there is no substitute for years of living in the middle of what eventually becomes the past. And everyone loves to tell their own history, from the ten year olds in my class, who remember their primary one days but don't know who Princess Diana' was, to their grandparents who came to our recent harvest service and have vivid memories of war rationing. One such grandparent brought in pictures of himself as a squadron leader in the Second World War and while it fascinated the children, he remember it. Like I say, you can never tell it like the one who lived through it.

The disciples had a great story to tell. So much so in fact that many of them wrote it down. It's a first hand account of their encounter with Jesus and it's living history, told through the eyes of those who walked, ate and lived daily with Him, who saw Him heal, teach, be put to death but also saw Him after He had risen. Right at the end of his gospel, John writes, 'This is the disciple who testifies to these things and who wrote them down. We know that his testimony is true. Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written.' But the whole world doesn't need any more books, for the living history contained in the one book, the Bible, is enough to convince me that Jesus is real, is still alive and is the only way to God. To be honest, He's not history at all!

H is for HILL

From our front garden, we can see the Mourne Mountains, the spired cathedral in Armagh, roof tops in Richhill, the lights of Moy and Dungannon beyond, the hills of south Armagh and of course, the houses that make up Loughgall village. On a clear night, in an easterly direction and close to the four or five red lights that front the TV mast on the Belfast hills, a couple of bright white beams in the sky, that grow as they descend are the only indication that another plane has commenced its final descent into the international airport, a good forty miles away from our home. Everyone who comes to our door marvels at the view and it's then that we are reminded what we have every day as we step outside.

There is always something to see on our hill. During the day it may be farmers ploughing, spraying or making silage, horses cantering in a low lying meadow, the river Callan flowing swiftly after a heavy or prolonged downpour, a cow grazing effortlessly as it walks, indifferent to the surrounding world. It could be a plane leaving its furry trail in the overhead sky, a column of smoke from a distant chimney, a child playing in a front garden, a crowd gathering at the local pub for a drumming match or simply a car, bicycle or walker going up or down our hill. At night, lights dominate the scenery everywhere from the illuminated chapel and church, the village street lights, the white welding glow from a neighbour's garage as he works at a broken car, the moving lights where we know roads to be, to the all-revealing brightness of the floodlights at the local football club.


I have lived on this hill all my life, walked its short length in both directions many times but it's just as difficult now as it was when I was in short trousers. From this hill I've seen so many changes in the surrounding countryside, watched events unfold during the troubles that I would rather have missed and even witnessed President Clinton's helicopter pass by on its way to Armagh a few years ago. And while we call it 'our hill', that's a pretty tenuous claim of ownership based on being the only human dwellers along its length, but I presume the numerous small animals and birds that have lived here for long periods might dispute our boasts. In truth, neither the hill nor the view from its top belongs to anyone but there is a certain pride in living on it and at least claiming to have first rights to the scenery and unless a Noah style flood happens, I don't reckon we'll ever be troubled by rising rivers.


For years I worked in a town on a hill. You knew it for miles around because its water tower rose above all the other buildings, like a huge funnel. I think that was the first time it really sunk in that while people who live on a hill have a wonderful view of all around, everything they can see has an equally splendid view of the hilltop dweller. In truth, we are more exposed to viewing eyes than those we view for a house on a hill is more a focal point for those living below. And it's not possible to hide.As Christians, Jesus expects us to be like a city on a hill, not hiding our faith, but exposed for the world to see not only what we believe but also that we reflect the God that we serve so that they might be attracted to what He offers. And we only reflect our God when His face shines upon us and His Spirit breathes within us. When Jesus died, they crucified him on a hill, where everyone could see Him and as He looked around all He could see, He forgave them. And He still does today, but you need to look upwards to see Him.

H is for HARBOUR

We walked there every night and usually at least once during the day. Our rented house lay just off the cliff path, close to the sea and it was no more than a twenty minute, brisk walk, but with a couple of small kids and a buggy it could stretch to much longer. We found a resting place on the wall, close to the harbour and could easily sit there for a couple of hours any evening, while the two lads played on the pebbly beach nearby or climbed over the small rocks beside the footpath. And as they played, their imaginations ran wild and we eavesdropped on their little world as it unfolded before their widening eyes. Often, it was long past their bedtime when we left but wife had already dressed them for bed and protected them from the elements with large, all-in-one sleepy suits that always go unnoticed on young children but might have created a furore if I had chosen to wear on 'down the town'

It wasn't a huge harbour, mainly rectangular in shape with a small opening at one corner to the bigger world beyond. Nestling in its security was a mixture of old and new boats, nothing too flash and most in residence for a purpose. A few belonged to fishermen, one or two of whom probably scraped their livelihood from a day at sea but most appeared to be casual sailors for whom a few fish was an added bonus. Lobster pots lined the path around the harbour and although I never managed to see a live or dead crustacean as I roamed the perimeter, they must have served their purpose at some stage of the day, otherwise they wouldn't have stayed. Every day, a few, more senior individuals congregated in the vicinity of the walls, to enjoy a pipe of tobacco or just a chat and to watch the world drift by. Few noticed them, in the rush of driving past, but they were always there, long past taking a boat out on the waters but possibly reliving past experiences at beyond the harbour walls. For most of the day, like any other harbour, the boats remained still and empty, save for the odd enthusiast on board and several seemed not to have moved for a long time, but they must have all been sea-worthy to be worth a place in the harbour.

At the weekend it was a hive of activity, with the odd fish stall, ice-cream stand and a preacher competing for the attention of the hundreds of tourists who invaded the main street. And most people seemed to have the same agenda, a walk along the cliff path ending in the harbour and an ice cream in one of the town's parlours.

I've been to different harbours, all over the world and they all exhibit that same sense of emptiness and isolation, where the boats are left alone while the owners discover the surroundings inland. Sometimes, the smell of cooking, a faint cabin light or a pair of sandals standing idly on the gangway is the only indication of life on board. Yet at some stage, they all leave the harbour for deeper water and whatever it may hold. I'm not a seafaring man but I know from sitting on the walls that leaving the harbour just doesn't happen. It takes a lot of preparation to have everything on board that you need, to know that your boat isn't going to sink in deeper water and to know how to handle it when you get outside the walls and conditions change. I'd be absolutely hopeless because all my sea knowledge wouldn't cover a postage stamp. But I guess that even with all the knowledge, to make it worthwhile, you still have to get out of the harbour. Being a Christian can be pretty secure at times, as long as you don't look over the walls. I suppose for a lot of believers that's where their adventure with God begins and ends. But where is the thrill and excitement of serving Him, when you spend your life tied to the church wall with maybe the occasional short trip beyond its safety. Jesus challenges us to 'go into all the world and preach the gospel' and says that he will make us 'fishers of men.' And he never sends us out unprepared for deep water. We'll not reach much of the world if we only see a short distance beyond the walls and I've never seen too much fishing in the harbour.

H is for HUSBAND

I knew what it meant long before it happened. At least I thought I did. I knew the verse well too. At least I thought I did. Didn't it say, 'Wives obey your husbands'? It didn't? Oh I get it now. It said, 'Be submissive to your husbands'. There is a difference you know, between obey and being submissive. It's subtle but it's there, nevertheless. My dictionary, and I hope it's reliable, tells me that to be submissive means to be unresistingly or humbly obedient. So that's obedience without any questions then. But more about that later.

My only real experience of husbands was the view I perceived from the various family relatives that crossed my path and one or two other individuals whom I knew. Some were rulers of their own domain, others shared their kingdom and a few seemed to exist in a parallel world to that of their wives. Husbands appeared to have responsibility for the big decisions, for the monitoring of the family finances and for the discipline of children, but usually only after all other avenues had been explored. Husbands had their comfy chair, their revered place at the dinner table and usually took charge of the steering wheel. Wives discussed their problems with their husbands but the reverse rarely happened, because husbands were the strong ones. Wives took the main responsibility of rearing their husbands' offspring since husbands didn't have time and husbands decided which car to buy, which holiday to book and how much to put on the collection plate on a Sunday morning. After all, men have always been stronger anyway. Just look at tennis, athletics, soccer, golf and the UK has had only one woman Prime Minister, so husbands should be in control.Perception is a wonderful thing and our senses do often create images that appear to be the norm. But to perceive without discernment is a mistake.

The first shock I discovered was that being a groom is miles away from being a boyfriend. But the bigger shock was still to come for being a husband is equally as far removed from being a groom and even further from my perception of what role I should fulfill, once we had tied the knot. And I think that's where so many come unstuck. For suddenly, they discover that love, friendship, sharing and caring plays a much bigger part in a married relationship than they expected. And even after the sons came along, I realised that being a father and a husband are two entirely different roles but both need to be nurtured for the family unit to survive. There is really littler room for self promotion in either but giving of one's self is central to both and in giving, we receive much more back than we can imagine. But it takes two to make it work and might I suggest that three makes it a certain success, when that third person is God. The writer of Ecclesiastes, in explaining that two are better than one offers the same sentiment when he says 'A cord of three strands is not quickly broken.' How stronger is our marriage when we are intertwined with God.

Which brings me neatly back to the start again. Now where did I leave off? Oh yes, this talk about a wife being unresistingly or humbly obedient to her husband. I think I need to read that verse again. In the rest of the verse, Peter is encouraging wives to act in this way so that if their husbands are not believers, they will see 'the purity and reverence of your lives.' Now that's a whole new ball game. Equally he accepts that women may be physically weaker but he does tell us husbands to 'be considerate as you live with your wives, and treat them with respect.' My trusty dictionary tells me that considerate means to 'show kindly awareness for another's feelings' so I guess we have a bit of hard thinking to do. There are many other references from Paul for both partners but all tend to tell me the same thing. The starting point is always love. Have you started to weave the cord?

H is for HAMSTRING

It was a cold, Wednesday night, with a slight hint of moisture in the air. We were just in the middle of a short stint of 'rugby league' style ball work at one end of the pitch when I felt a strange twinge in my right thigh. Nothing too serious, mind, but enough to make me aware of it every step I took. The coach knew there was something wrong because I was rarely troubled with any sort of injury and he immediately intervened, sent me to the changing room and instructed me to 'get some ice on it' straight away. Saturday was still three days away and I saw no reason to be particularly worried about missing the game, but the twinge kept niggling at me all the next day and by Friday, hadn't completely disappeared. Still, I reckoned with a good bit of strapping, things should be OK, even though it was my main kicking leg. It's strange because though I made it through the game, which we lost, I was always conscious of a slight weakness and have no doubt that it affected my performance on the day for with every kick or step, I half expected the small tightness to explode into a full hamstring tear. But it never happened though in retrospect I probably shouldn't have played. A week's rest and it never returned. The coach said it had only happened in the first place because I was actually fitter than I'd ever been, which said a lot for my condition beforehand!

Some years later, as I tried to extend my playing career down the club, I felt the pain of injury again, not in my leg this time but deeply embedded in my groin. It wasn't an instant pain that had stopped me in my tracks but one that seemed to develop as the game progressed. By the end it was pretty sore and the next morning, I knew I would struggle to make the cup semi-final the next Saturday. Each day brought a little improvement but still the deep ache that had settled over my left side, was not filling me with confidence. By Saturday, I had overestimated my importance to the team and, along with some encouragement, I took to the field. For the first few minutes, everything went to plan, though the ache had not deserted me. But fifteen minutes into the game, a quick twist to escape a tackle and I felt it go. I would liked to have had a choice as to whether to stay on or not but the searing pain left only one solution. It took weeks to heal and into the bargain, we lost the game, but that didn't hurt nearly as much as the fact that i had let down the guys I played with every week. Not because I was indispensable to the team but the fact that I had known all along I wasn't fit enough to play and had sacrificed the greater good of the team for my selfish desire to play. In the end I was found out. I knew how they felt for I had been in their position many times when a fellow team member had made a decision with a similar mentality to mine and we had suffered the consequences of his early departure from the field.

Long after I finished with the oval ball competitively, even a short kick about in the garden with young son, left me aware that injuries not properly cared for can leave a lasting mark and a weakness that doesn't go away. We cal them 'old war wounds' and they are a constant reminder of the frailties of our bodies as they age. Which reminds me, I don't like the slightly uncomfortable ache that invades my hip on a more regular basis than before!

The church is our body of believers. When one part of it is hurting, it's easy to turn a blind eye, stick our heads in the sand and expect everything to be alright. Sometimes it does heal itself but often it just gets worse and then we are all affected because we can't accomplish the things that God wants us to do. And in God's team, nobody is more important than another but everybody has a role to play for He is the head of our church and under His guidance we can do great things fro Him. But we need to be fit to be in his team, not carrying anything which could affect our usefulness, for while we may fool our closest friends, God knows. Paul in his letter to the Galatian Christians warns us, ' Be not deceived; God is not mocked: for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap.' Are you hiding something that stops you from giving your best. While it's there you can never have the victory!

H is for HARVEST

It must be hard for some folks to appreciate harvest celebrations when their only experience of fruit and vegetables is in the aisles at Tesco or Sainsburys. It's difficult to imagine the work that is involved in ensuring that the carrots, parsnips, potatoes, turnips, cabbages, apples, pears and all the other plant-based products are always on the shelves for us to enjoy. The farmer depends so much on the weather that God sends him and even then, a lot of preparation is needed in order to reach harvest time successfully. In the orchards around home, there is constant pruning of the apple trees, to remove small shoots and branches so that all the tree's energy goes into making the fruit. But orchards need to be sprayed from springtime to prevent or reduce a variety of diseases that can at the most, inflict severe damage or at the least make the apples look unsightly. Grass needs to be cut around the trees, weeds removed and then, as harvest approaches,ladders, buckets, boxes and crates have to be transported to the field. Apple pickers have to be found and employed and even then, they need to be shown how to handle the delicate fruit to avoid bruising. When the pickers finish for the evening, the farmer can be seen bringing the full crates out of the orchard late into the evening. And the fruit is still nowhere near the shelves of the supermarket. Imagine too, that most farmers have other enterprises such as barley crops, silage and animals and you begin to get some idea why, for country folk especially, harvest time is an opportunity to thank God for still providing.

Yet in all our activities, we are blessed to have the machinery, a suitable climate and help. In other countries, much poorer than ourselves, harvest time is a constant worry all year as drought or extreme weather conditions can seriously damage a family's only income. That's why, when I pick up a tin or a product that was harvested halfway across the world, I am thankful that the God I serve is Lord of every harvest, rich and poor and I think of the hardships that have gone into providing me with something that requires no more effort than picking it up.

Even though I lived on a farm, we weren't big into harvest because dad really only kept cattle and there's not much harvesting to do at them, but we did have several apple orchards and, although a neighbour had rented them from us, occasionally we helped to pull the apples. I remember one year, offering to harvest the apple crop in the orchard adjacent to our house and then spraining my ankle during a rugby match just the weekend before we were due to start. The pain was excruciating but a promise is a promise so heroically I soldiered on , along with the help of wife and the hindrance of two very young sons. But we did it and that was a lesson in perseverance itself. Most of my experience of harvest though was working on the farm of a friend during my student holidays. Since I worked there at Christmas, Easter and summer, I saw all the stages of getting the ground prepared, sowing the crops, tending to them and then finally harvesting them and it made me realise that a farmer's work is never done because he has to fit all this around his normal everyday schedule.

But one incident springs to mind during the apple season. As the apple pickers carried on their day's work, they were often left alone in the orchard for hours at a time. Since wages depended on the number of boxes or crates they filled there was always the temptation to 'shake' the trees and gather the fallen apples, rather than have to position and move a ladder every few minutes. But within a few days the fallen apples had bruised quite badly and were then only fit for a lesser use, so all pickers were warned of the consequences. On one occasion, a very still day, as we approached the orchard, a huge tree was clearly swaying, but not in the breeze. The picker in question couldn't hide his misdemeanour and was shown a quick exit in the direction of his transport. We had a good laugh after he left, that he had been caught red-handed but it did serve as a warning to all around.

We're right in the middle of the harvest thanksgiving season in churches now and I am reminded of the story Jesus told about the man who, after a very successful harvest, having made lots of money, then built bigger stores and enjoyed himself. God, however, intervened and the man paid for his self-centredness with his life. It's a lesson to us all that no matter how much we think we contribute to the harvest, it's God who gives us it and it's the land that He created that brings forth our yield. Likewise, when Jesus tells us that more workers are needed for the harvest of souls, we should be in no doubt that while we can help to bring His message of salvation to others, it is Jesus who makes the seed grow in hearts and produce the harvest. That should encourage us to be workers in the harvest. And remember, when you work, the Master is always watching . Jesus himself said 'The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field.' Lord , send me.

H is for HOME

We lived in a grey pebble dashed house in the country. It had two storeys but had begun life as a much smaller building. Long before I was born, the family homestead had just about doubled in size although it appears that it always had an upstairs. Around the time I arrived, a scullery, bathroom and toilet block were added at the rear. This section had a flat roof so it was not the place to kick a ball as it did not return its prisoners. along the front of the house, ivy was encouraged and dad took irregular sessions with shears at maintaining its appearance. All heat inside was provided by an old Wellstood cooker which, only heated the kitchen so usually it was necessary to run about quite quickly on winter nights when moving between rooms. Although most rooms and a fireplace, fires were rarely lit ,except in the dining and sitting rooms, at Christmas or when visitors were expected. Several renovations were carried out up to my mid teens, including 'turning' the stairs which use to have an awkward bend near the bottom steps. However, the turning allowed it to invade more of the kitchen, so I'm not entirely certain if it was a successful venture.

I lived in a couple of different locations while at university but neither of these I could ever have called home, because home is essentially not about the building but about the people who live there. And while I spent most of my week somewhere else, I knew it was only a stopping point on the way.

When we got married, wife and I rented a house on the outskirts of the village, about two miles away from home. It was a similar type of house to what I had known but it had its own character, with a beautiful staircase that wound its way up three levels. It was heated by huge electric radiators filled with concrete to hold the heat but because they were expensive to run and we were poor newlyweds, most of them were not used so it was another case of running from room to room to keep warm. The chasing was good fun, but the catching was even better! Unusually, the house had an outside water tank, perched high above the back door. It had been rather unsuccessfully covered so often, the bath was a mixture of clear water and black, suspicious looking particles. At one stage the best filtration system we could find for the water consisted of a couple of old socks tied over the bath taps, to collect any stray debris that had swum in from the outside world. In harsh winter weather, things got worse when all the outside pipes leading from the tank, froze solid, so many a morning, I could be found up a ladder with a boiling kettle, trying to bring some normality to our water system. we stayed there for three years. It was home but not as we knew it.

When we built our house, in an orchard beside where I had spent most of my life, it was to our design and we had only just moved in when we were joined by a pair of small feet and impressive lungs. We had barely time to settle and some of the house was to remain untouched while we were being introduced into the routines of our new little arrivals. And it became home, though we both often referred to going home to see our parents, we knew that where our little family now resided was our real home. There were days of laughter, days of noise, days of sadness, days of hard work, days of just lounging around and also days that just passed. But they were all days in our home for we had made it such.

I'm sure it's still home to our two boys, though their studies have taken them away more than they are here, for most of their possessions are lying about in their rooms and they always seem to appear at weekends and at holidays. But it's now a home with more days of quietness, days of contemplation and days of memories. Yet, most importantly it's a place that we all created together as a family and in the absence of our childhood houses has become what we now call home. We both often reminisce of Sundays listening to Jim Reeves singing 'This world is not my home, I'm just a-passing through,' and the longer we both live in our faith the more transient our earthly homes become. Like Peter 'we are looking forward to a new heaven and a new earth, the home of righteousness.' And where all God's family will be together. Now that's what I call home.

H is for HAIR

I should have known when I looked at my dad and his siblings, what the future would hold. There were four brothers and one sister and even though she had maintained her hair throughout her lifetime, all four boys had become folllicly challenged while still in their twenties. On dad's side this looked a straight one in five chance of keeping my curls but two factors weighed heavily against that probability. First, few women are bald and, secondly, science had taught me that every new birth is not entirely dependent on previous statistics. Yet I lived in hope. After all, my dad's father always had a full head of hair and although my mum's dad had been baldish for as long as I can remember, his sons, generally but not exclusively had kept their crowns. There was, however, one other factor in the mix, for one of my uncles who had not lost his hair had instead gone prematurely grey and was now completely white. So in the hair department, there was not much to look forward to. Not that it occurred to me anything more than fleetingly.

When I was young, dad used to take me to a barber in Moy. His name was Peter and before he would cut my hair, he placed a wooden board, covered in a fabric, across the arms of the chair, which then became my perch for the duration of the trim. Actually it was not so much a trim as a shave and I knew exactly what short back and sides meant. And although I didn't really care then, by the time I got to twelve or thirteen, on the edge of the hippie revolution and the advent of long-haired pop stars, I was less than impressed. Still, the ritual continued for a while longer until I was old enough to find a new barber who was less severe in his approach but dad continued to make the short journey to Peter even when there didn't seem to be anything to cut. By my mid to late teens, my head had recovered and taken on a mind of its own, with the strands now well over the collar and heading towards the shoulders, almost ready for a little bow. It prompted the headmaster at my school to comment that it was getting on the long side but he wouldn't tell me to get it cut. Knowing his genial relationship with his senior pupils, I realized this was as close to a reprimand as I was ever likely to get.

It was some time in my second year at Queens that the rot set in. I hadn't noticed anything myself, but while sitting in a library cubicle one night, I was alerted by a 'friend' passing by to a small, clearing developing in the centre of my crown. Closer examination confirmed his eagle eye and I knew there was little I could do but watch. However the process was slow and has not continued at any great speed through the intervening years and I take much comfort that my dad and his brothers were 'smooth' long before the age I have reached and I appear to still have some distance to travel. The white hair development was much more rapid. I first realized that something was amiss when I began to study the hairs gathering on the black gown that my barber fastened around me when cutting. More and more of it was no longer brown, but various shades of grey. That was about twelve years ago. Now I don't see any brown at all when I visit him and to deepen the misery, most of my former classmates have endured neither misfortune. A couple of years ago, I met an old friend, at least fifteen years my senior and marvelled silently at his full head of black hair. I'm sure he could have told me which bottle to buy but he was probably too embarrassed! Now I've nothing against hair dye at all, but I wonder what we would all look like if all the colouring agents that we use, suddenly stopped working. How many people would we not recognize?

For me, I love that verse in Proverbs which says, 'Grey hair is a crown of splendour; it is attained by a righteous life.' Hair was also an indication of Samson's strength in the Old Testament though his loss of power was more about his disobedience than some visible attribute. However the greatest indication of our worth to God and His interest in us is shown by Jesus as he sends out His twelve followers with these words, 'even the very hairs of your head are all numbered.' If God is interested enough in me to know at any exact moment, how many hairs I have, then He is interested in every aspect of my life. In truth, my hair colour or amount doesn't really matter for God looks beyond what others see. It's not hairstyle but lifestyle.

H is for HEATHER

We lived only a few miles apart, both in the country, went to different primary schools, but I didn't know she existed until we moved to our next seats of education. Both in the same city, for me it was the Royal, her choice was the Girls' High School. Many years later both would join to form a new school under the name of the former.
We had several things in common. We both were the same age, had an older sister with whom we sang, had passed the eleven plus, loved football and had learned to play the guitar. Yet we differed in as many areas as we were similar. She had a younger brother, I had none, she wore glasses, was left-handed, supported Manchester United, had black, curly hair, was on the tall side of short and, of course, was a female.

I first met her at our local Christian Endeavour on a Friday night. She was an effervescent person, full of life, with a big grin and rosy cheeks. Often she would bring her guitar along and help to lead the singing and she had a strong alto harmony voice that kept tune and knew what to sing. Her older sister and mine, who was also called Heather, got along famously and were also the same age as each other so it was not too long before somebody suggested that the two groups of duettists get together and form a quartet. And of course , that is exactly what happened with the two older girls singing the melodies and the two guitarists chiming in with the harmonies. We called ourselves The Eden Four, named after the townland of our church and there followed a couple of years of serious gigs in churches, coffee bars and mission halls and even to my mid-teenage ears it didn't sound too bad. Some folks reckoned that we would have made a good couple and there was more than a hint or suggestion at the time but, in truth, there was never a spark, let alone a flame and we were more than happy just to play music together and to argue about football. Her younger brother was also growing up fast and he and I were becoming firmer and firmer friends, despite his allegiance to his sister's football team.

Then in 1971 came the shock news that the family had decided to emigrate to Australia. Their photograph was splashed over the local newspaper and I remember reading that they would be leaving their cat behind, but little else. And move they did. It was the end of The Eden Four but it was also the end of family friendships built over a long period of time. After they left, Heather consistently wrote to my mum , telling her of their adventures and anxieties in settling on the far side of the world. And then one year, she came back, for a brief visit. I recognized her, but not quite immediately, for those late teenage years often do most to alter our facial appearance. Also, contact lenses now negated the need for the glasses and her tanned skin was foreign to these shores. But her accent gave her away for hidden between her developed antipodean tones were the strains of Derryscallop that had formed her childhood language. And as she talked enthusiastically to all those gathered in the room, she whipped me at chess without almost nonchalantly. What an embarrassment!

Heather continued to write for years, had been through uni, got married and settled, but something had changed. For while she was still the bubbly, energetic person, all was not well. The doctors discovered her tumour after she had experienced some difficulties. It was in an area of the brain where an operation to remove it completely was just not possible. For the next few years, medication continued to give her an almost normal quality of life but the headaches never went away and eventually she succumbed to the inevitable. I regularly keep in touch with the family and her brother has my best friend for over twenty years. And we all miss the infectious, intelligent person that we knew. A year or so ago, her sister came back to these shores to visit and left me with a copy of all the poems Heather had written both before and during her illness. I can think of no better way to finish than with a two verses from one of them, called 'Where is He.'

God's under me to lift me when I'm weak
Often, I know.
I'm angry, life is hard,
The waves are high, I cannot row.
The shore is close, yet far away,
I'll die. All power I lack.
And suddenly I'm on the sand
God's borne me on his back.

God's in my heart and gives me love
I've never known before
I love myself and others
As for God? I do adore
My maker, friend. adviser, helper-
How could I refrain
From loving God with all my heart
And telling you his name?