M is for MAUD

I only got to know her in her senior years. She was a bit of an institution around our parts and having been born during the reign of Queen Victoria, shared a middle name with the same lady and was very much a lady herself. I think my first real contact with her was sometime around my seventh birthday, when mum decided that I should play the piano and, to be honest, I guess I wasn't initially averse to the idea. I had seen the old lady they called Maud many times because she had been playing the organ in our church since shortly after the resurrection. Well at least that's how it seemed for nobody every told me about any other church organist who had gone before her. She seemed a pleasant woman though many people said she ruled the choir with an iron fist, figuratively speaking but I was prepared to take a gamble and go along with mum's plan for my tuition.

Her organ sat in the middle at the front of the church, just in front of and slightly raised above the choir which she surveyed from her throne. It wasn't a modern instrument and relied completely on the energy she could transmit to her legs to pump the bellows and thus make a sound. She was a well qualified musician, knew the difference between sharp and flat, could sing in tune and had a thorough grasp of the keys in front of her, even into her very latter years. Every Sunday, she would play the introduction to the first hymn or Psalm and as everyone was rising to their feet, would raise the singing to her accompaniment in a voice that was loud, clear and assured. As long as I can remember, she drove an old black Austin car, the sort where the indicators appeared out of a gap on each side, just behind the doors and the car would 'roar' up to church every Sunday morning without fail and also during the week for the choir practice. Mum and dad though, remembered a time when she had no car and regularly completed the three mile journey both ways by bicycle, even in the unkindest of winter weather. She was a marvellous choir leader and always had the choir in perfect working order. It was her life and very clearly her calling and she undertook her role always with enthusiasm and dedication.

Wednesday night was music night. Sister and I would be whisked off by dad the few miles down the road, sometime after tea and deposited in the old one storey house that had seen better days. It seemed to consist of three or four main rooms with the music room at one end and separated from the kitchen by a bedroom, all of which were reached by a small corridor just inside the front door. Dad spent the time chatting to her husband, beside the old hearth, where turf burned and pots and griddles still hung, suspended in the past. The music room itself was overcrowded with three people as we competed with the piano, an organ, a few stools and an armchair for space, but we were joined most evenings by Maud's Cocker Spaniel, who lay slumped in front of the fire or on the armchair along with the occupant. A small fire struggled to stay alive in the grate and all manner of things seemed to exist behind the piano, but I never dared venture northwards to explore. And she was a great teacher, belying all rumours that her rhythm beating stick often beat knuckles that didn't play properly. We got along famously and the half hour flew. She thought I was great because I could sight read pretty good and to be honest it helped me get through many lessons when my home practice had been almost non-existent. When the lessons finished, she would mumble something and disappear into the middle room, always returning with a chocolate bar or sweets for each of us and there was method in her madness, for the lure of the sugar always brought us back the next week, even if we had to share a seat with the Spaniel. We both passed several exams with her and because she was highly regarded by the examiners, so were her pupils.

In her final years, they put up a plaque in the church to commemorate her faithfulness in over forty years as organist and I think it also represented a heartfelt thank you from all those parents who had taken their first musical steps under her guidance. She and her husband are long gone now and often I drive past the entry where her house once stood and remember fondly of the lady who gave her life in the service of others. That's true Christianity to me, for it's too easy to talk the talk and not walk the walk. When the disciples argued over who would be the greatest among them, Jesus rebuked them by saying 'If anyone wants to be first, he must be the very last, and the servant of all." He further reminds us that to serve him we must serve others when he says ''I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.' And after all, we are only following the example of the Servant King.

M is for MOON

I was really excited about the whole moon thing. Right from the first disastrous Apollo 1 mission, when three astronauts lost their lives in a fire in 1967 right through to the last Apollo 17 trip in 1972, I was glued to the grainy, black and white television pictures beamed not just from the other side of the world, but much further. I was still in short trousers by the time the first manned flight had circled the moon and this in itself seemed almost beyond my comprehension, to think that the yellow disc in the sky had been circled by human beings. I tried hard to see them up there but never did. The whole space programme was so well organised with just one step at a time seeming to be the objective.By the time the famous Apollo 11 would undertake its historic flight and subsequent landing on the lunar surface, the lunar module would have been tested in orbit around the earth, then in orbit around the moon, every attempt being made to ensure the safety of the men who would set foot on another world that most of us have only ever seen from earth.

On the historic day, July 20th, 1969, like most people who could get near a television, I was transfixed by the events as the lunar module separated from the main spacecraft and two human beings began their descent towards worldwide fame. Memories are vague but I think it was late afternoon when touchdown was confirmed and Neil Armstrong spoke those timeless words 'Houston, Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.' I guess the Sea of Tranquility was much quieter than anywhere on this planet at that exact moment. We were living in an age when technology was still in its infancy, where whole nations were still recovering from two world wars and where the very idea of man landing on the moon still belonged in the pages of a science fiction adventure or a Hollywood movie. But we were actually seeing living history as it happened thousands of miles away. That first step on the surface, the flag planting, the phone conversation with the American president, the photographing, walkabouts and evident humour were all recorded in our memories by the magic of television. And we all waited nervously as the lunar module prepared for its take off, hoping that it would be successful and that Armstrong and Aldrin would be able to rejoin Collins in the command module. Why , we even washed the splashdown in the Pacific Ocean a couple of days later and remained focused on the screen as the astronauts emerged from their mission, unscathed and victorious.

I often tell the boys about the whole event and feel just a little bit proud that I lived through such an important part of history. When we went to Cape Kennedy a few years back, they were enthralled by what they saw but not nearly as excited as their dad. Just to see the command module and realise how small it was and how huge the Saturn rocket was that powered it to the moon. In recent years, despite having watched the whole events on television as they happened, I have been disturbed by various conspiracy theories that suggest the whole event never happened on the moon but was staged in an area on earth away from public view. Some of the evidence is compelling but I know what I saw and like millions of others, I have no reason to believe otherwise.

Those who lived with Jesus on earth had no reason to doubt either. They had witnessed the miracles, the sermons and the compassion. They had watched as he fulfilled Old Testament prophecies and they had seen Him after He rose from the dead. Only a few of them were gathered with Him as He left them to return to His Father but they were left in no doubt that He would return again in the way He had gone. What an impact that must have made on those disciples. For what other reason would they have been willing to die for what they had seen and knew to be true. In the intervening years, there have been many who have attempted to explain away the whole events as elaborate stories or myths or even to relegate Jesus to nothing more than a good human being. But the disciples knew what they saw and had no reason to believe otherwise. That's why they not only told others about Him but also wrote it down so that people like us might also know the truth and believe. Jesus told His disciples, 'Because you have seen me, you have believed; blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.' That includes me and hopefully you and when He returns, victorious, His mission will be complete. The countdown is underway!

M is for MANOR

You can see the house from the gates, lying at the far end of a road, about two hundred yards long that slopes upwards, towards and past the white building. The slope is less gentle than it seems from a distance and both sides of the avenue are lined with tall trees, planted more than a century ago. The entrance is ornate, consisting of two heavy metal gates that control the main traffic and two small side gates for pedestrian use. On each side of the entrance, a sculptured stone design forms a large semi circular wall and just behind the wall, to the right and left of the gates, are two gate lodges, recently refurbished and now used as private dwellings. For many years they lay derelict and for some time during the early years of the Troubles, they were used by nightwatchmen and security personnel to monitor vehicles entering the premises. I remember regularly warming myself at the gas heater on a cold winter morning inside one of the lodges as we waited for the school bus and lifted the monotony for the security man on duty.

The manor itself was a vast acreage of land enclosed, for the most part, by a stone wall, most of which is still intact and that appears to have been erected during the famine years in order to provide work and wages for the locally less well off. The estate itself was established in the seventeenth century by an Oxford gentleman called Sir Anthony Cope and became the site of the family home for over three hundred years during which time two large residences were built. One of these homes has long since been demolished but one or two locals still possess black and white photographs of the building and its beautiful glass conservatory. Both houses overlooked the lake known as Lough Gall from which the village acquired its name and many people in the area found employment within the demesne walls, either on the land or in one of the big houses. Two sisters who travelled all the way from Cork to work in the house that still occupies the main hill, stayed to marry two brothers and settle in the village. Around 1947, the estate was sold by the Cope family to the Department of Agriculture which, in the subsequent years, then established a farm, a horticultural centre and a plant breeding / research unit on the premises, thereby ensuring that employment continued to be provided for the community.

In the last ten years, the role of the manor estate in the lives of the locals has again altered with the Department of Agriculture providing much of their land, now unused, to the local council to develop as a tourist and leisure attraction. The lake is now awash with piers from which keen anglers spend their days trying to tempt pike and other creatures from the well stocked depths. A path sometimes wooden, sometimes stony allows those wishing to take an energetic or romantic stroll, a very close view of the lake on their travels. For the more energetic a maze of roads meander through the forest and fields and informative notice boards and artifacts remind inquisitive walkers of a time long ago. However, what seems to attract most visitors to estate is the maturing eighteen hole golf course that occupies a large slice of the land and the flat, green area near the car park that is used regularly for football matches and caravan weekends and less often for horse jumping. Completing the present amenities are a children's playground, an adventure playground and various pieces of wooden keep fit apparatus on the routes around the estate. It's all a far cry from the days when local workers built roads, houses and walls and planted trees or large Charolais cattle roamed the paddocks.

As I sit in the school, named after and established by the original owner of the manor, I'm reminded how things are constantly changing all around me. Mr Cope could never have imagined his estate in its present form but it is now long beyond his control.Even the present school building is not the original learning establishment and neither happen to be the building where I received my own primary education in the village. It also helps me to understand that nothing is forever in this world and that when we pass beyond it, we may leave a legacy, either rich or otherwise, but we leave everything else too. I know many people who plan for the future in this world as if it was never going to end for them and yet all their planning and striving will be in vain if they have not taken care to plan for the future beyond the walls of their own estate.

Jesus told His disciples, 'a man's life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions.' and later reminded them that 'where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.' Would you rather be Lord of the manor or in the manor of your Lord.

M is for MOUSE

I don't really mind sharing my breakfast cereal with anyone, but I do think it is courteous to ask before taking. Also, it's pretty good manners when you are a visitor, to at least pour the cereal into a bowl, rather than stick one's head and whole body into the cereal box and tramp about through it, even before the landlord has appeared in the kitchen. I mean, you could at least wash your feet! But 'Michael', as we shall call him, to deflect any adverse publicity away from his immediate family, had no such manners and by the time I arrived in the kitchen, he was fully clothed with a Bran Flakes box and the only evidence of his presence was the gluttonous munching coming from within and a brief glimpse of his tail wagging, if that's what mice tails do when they're happy. He didn't even hear me advancing towards the worktop and by the time my large shadow had plunged him into temporary darkness, I reckon he knew his fate was sealed for he suddenly stopped eating, glanced upwards out of the corner of his beady eye and that was the last daylight he was to see. Execution was swift, though the method was unusual yet ingenious and it's probably sufficient to say that car tyres are bigger and stronger than cereal boxes!

Michael was the latest in a long line of family members who had arrived uninvited at our rented home and had left their calling cards all along the worktop, one even daring to descend into the depths of the toaster for nourishment, while we watched from the other side of the kitchen. Being alerted to our swift movement across the room, he had scampered out and climbed down the back outside of the fridge, sitting motionless inside two metal panels and camouflaged against their dark metallic colour. In my rage though, I could see him through the bars and knew his only method of escape was out one of the two open ends. However he wasn't to be budged and I wasn't giving up. Execution was swift, though the method was unusual yet ingenious and it's probably sufficient to say that sharp bread knives fit through the little slots on the back of a fridge!

Regularly we watched the little rodents stick their heads into traps, such was their arrogance and by the time we eventually left the house, some three years later, we had won many battles but never the war. All was well in our new home until the colder evenings and the falling apples began to attract the wrong kind of clientele once again and before too long they were having sports day above our bedroom ceiling every night. As they acquired more courage and evidently found more openings, they turned into explorers and before long had located the kitchen and living room at the other end of the house. The first we knew of their presence were the inevitable calling cards. Having gained an acceptable level of maturity with regard to dealing with such vermin, that didn't involve ranting and raving and foaming at the mouth like some crazed berserker from the bygone Viking age, I set about purchasing an array of wooden, plastic and metal devices that basically all did the same thing- execute them. It was at this stage of my mouse education, I was to discover that mice are, like myself, not terribly fond of cheese, but can't resist a nice rasher of cooked bacon or a Mars bar. I was also to discover that some mice have extremely long tongues and can lick Mars bar off a trap without ever setting foot on the device. But over a period of months, during which traps clearly outnumbered offenders, we caught whole families and it was at this time I was to discover that mice are extremely light creatures and can fly huge distances though the air with a little help from my right arm! We won many battles but never the war. Until Whitie, our cat, arrived a few years ago. Since that fateful day in the history of mice, not one little rodent has crossed the threshold. Whitie regularly plays with them outside the window though I guess it's not much fun for the mouse, who knows it's a sort of pre-dinner haka. a bit like pushing your steak around the plate before you eat it. A very knowledgeable cat lover informs me that mice can detect the scent from a cat in the house and will not enter so I guess while the cat's not away the mice can't play.

Isn't it amazing, sometimes, the efforts we make to keep ourselves right with God and to keep Satan out of our lives. But no matter how much we try and the number of battles we win, we always lose a few and that's all he needs to keep coming back and get a foothold in our lives. How often have you tried to resist temptation and just when you think you have succeeded, he comes form a different direction where your defences are weak and easily gains entry. Yet Jesus tells us in Matthew's Gospel to 'Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the body is weak.' When Jesus died and rose again, He not only won the battle but He won the war against satan. No longer do we need to fight alone because when satan knows that his Creator is living inside us, he realises that his is a losing battle.

We never have mice in the house now, but last night I think I heard one in the attic again. That's a lesson to me that satan never gives up trying. Don't leave the door open.

M is for MISSION

We had already watched the first two thrilling encounters and eldest son had told us that the third was possibly the best of all. It was a Saturday night and we settled down to watch on Sky, choosing the 9pm start rather than the 8pm slot on multiview. We missed the first minute or two but by the time we joined the action, Ethan Hunt was in fine form, dangling an enemy out of an aeroplane, then having him snatched by helicopter in a daring raid on a long bridge. And for the next hour the action never let up as we perched on the edge of our sofa,wondering what or who was around the next corner. We were in a sweat, exhausted by the on-screen action and at one point, wife stated, 'I'll not be able to watch this much longer, if it continues at this pace.' But after only an hour, all the baddies had been defeated, the crime had been solved, Ethan went off on honeymoon, the credits rolled and we were left looking at each other, still waiting for the plot to develop.Surely MI3 hadn't been that short a film. It was then that I glanced at the channel number and realised that we were watching the film with the eight o'clock start instead of nine and had missed the whole of the first hour. I guess to understand the film, having missed so much, would have been Mission Impossible!

There used to be one every couple of years. A big tent would be erected in a field, inside a stage would be built, big enough to accommodate a choir of forty or fifty and a makeshift pulpit. There would be an organ at one side and a piano facing it and the main body of space remaining would be filled with wooden forms and loose, metal framed chairs with a thin wooden seat. On opening night, stewards would direct cars into the field and park them in a uniform arrangement while others would welcome folks at the tent 'door', offering them a hymnbook and the choice of seat. Near to starting time, the choir seats had been filled up and each member wore the same 'uniform' with the ladies all sporting white blouses and 'berries' and the men arrayed in matching white shirts and coloured ties. I guess the white was meant to symbolise the 'sins shall be as white as snow' message that was preached, with slight variation, every night so I hope the choir had all clean hearts as well as clean clothing! Soon after the preacher would emerge from a little caravan where a few souls had been praying and take his place behind the lectern. When the service got under way, it almost invariably took the same pattern with some rousing singing of old standards from the 'Songs of Victory' hymnbook, a couple of 'pieces' from a visiting soloist or group, one or two 'anthems' from the choir, a Bible reading and then the sermon. The preacher was a good orator, had a wonderful Bible knowledge, always came armed with a few jokes and stories to pull the heart strings at the right moment, but , most of all, was faithful in his preaching. I guess he was quite a celebrity in many ways and people looked forward to his coming in the same way as some folks anticipate a concert, and though he seemed entirely comfortable in his localised fame, it certainly wasn't his desire to seek such honours. Some thirty to forty-five minutes later, he would ask people to respond by issuing an appeal to either raise their hand or come forward, while everyone sang, 'Just as I am' or something similar. And many folks did find God at such gatherings. Others found their future wives or husbands and most people who attended night after night, found it a great social occasion for a few weeks and when it was over, probably found it difficult enough to return to their old routines. I don't see so many of these tent missions or crusades now, nor indeed the small portable halls that used to be erected for itinerant preachers, but I know many people whose lives were changed through such events.

In the past year, four of our good friends have stepped away from their work because they believe God has called them to work 'full time' for Him in some form of mission. All possessed good jobs, humanly speaking, but realise that the job they have been given to do will be so much better, even though it will not bring the sort of financial rewards that secular work provided. However, their inner peace about their decisions is proof enough that this is where God wants them to be. It has taken courage but when God opens the door, only a fool would try to shut it in His face. One of the four has interviewed Presidents and Prime Ministers around the world but that pales into insignificance beside a conversation with the Creator and the opportunity to tell the world His story. Two of the others have wonderful skills in teaching children and their calling allows them to help the young in Peru and Africa both directly and indirectly. The fourth, already a pastor, is proof that even when we are involved in God's work, He may take us along a completely new road to do a new work for Him. Mission can be at home or far away but whatever He calls you to do, it's always a special assignment and, with His help, it's never Mission Impossible!

G is for GENERATOR

When the electric goes off, as it invariably does between autumn and spring in our part of the world, wife becomes a different person. Now, I'm not talking about a planned break in the electricity supply, due to maintenance or the like, where we get notice of the interruption days in advance. No, I'm thinking more of the results of a storm or some form of severe weather when our little pocket of houses, deep in the countryside, suddenly go dark when everywhere else I can see in the distance seems to be functioning normally. When this happens, you just know it's going to take hours to rectify so after ensuring that we are not alone in this dark world and having made a trip to the meter board to check the trips are OK, it's off to the phone to ring the 'hotline' and report the problem. This presents several problems at night. First, our main phone is powered by electricity but, since the rise of the mobile this had been less of an issue. Secondly, finding the number in the dark can be difficult, especially for those of us who already experience trouble reading the telephone directory in daylight. I use to store the number inside one of the kitchen doors but since they are all now in an outhouse and our kitchen is in a different place, this is not entirely helpful. Thirdly, having located a torch, one discovers that either (a) it is rechargeable and needs it done right now, or (b) that its batteries are flat or missing. So it's off to hunt for a candle. Now this is not a problem in our house as we have such an array of candles lit some nights, even when there is electricity, that I half expect a minister or priest to arrive in his robes and want to conduct a service! But matches are a different proposition altogether, for most of the people who light candles in our homestead either (a) cast aside the matchbox into any darkened corner once they see light, or (b) put the exhausted match back into the box where it mingles with those that still have energy to burn. It is not the first time that I have finally tracked down a full box of matches only to discover that they have all lost their heads! Anyway, eventually armed with candle light, a telephone directory and a mobile, the number is dialled. Now one of three things may happen. Either (a) the line is engaged because so many people are trying to do what I am doing, or (b) a recorded message from an anonymous individual informs me that 'we know you have a problem and we are doing all we can to rectify it,' (How do they know?) or (c) I get through to a real live person who takes my telephone number, asks me if I've checked the trips, if the dog hasn't eaten through the wires or if I've been putting on a rock concert that has blown a fuse. When I tell them that none of the above apply but that I am in fact stuck out in the middle of the country in my electric car, they don't seem very amused. Anyway, they inform me, just like the mystery voice, that they are aware of the problem and men are already dealing with it, though not to expect any power to return for several hours. I thank them and gently suggest that the tree I can see through my window, that blew down in the storm and is now balancing precariously against a transformer, generating all sorts of white lights and blue flashes might be worth investigating.

I have always promised myself that to prevent such events happening in the future, when bad weather threatens, I will invest in a generator. So far I have failed to heed my own advice though have made some initial preparations by installing a new hob above our cooker which now has two gas rings. Unfortunately, two years after its installation, I still haven't connected up a gas supply. But my intentions are good.

But to get back to the start of my story. When the electricity goes off, wife becomes a different person. To cut a long story short, she goes to bed, having lost all will to live in a house void of electricity. I can understand her reasoning at night when darkness pervades and the house is cold, so where could be warmer than bed, but to be settling down under the covers by five o'clock is probably a little extreme. To be honest, she's just not prepared for the inconvenience and disruption that a loss of power brings to her life and never seems keen to join me and a thousand candles in the living room. I guess men just never grow up and see the whole thing as one big adventure. Mind you, by the second or third day the excitement is wearing a bit thin.

When Jesus told the story about the ten virgins and their lamps in Matthew ch 25, He was reminding us that we do not know the moment when He will return but His advice was always to be ready. It's a bit late starting to look for a generator or a candle when the electricity has failed and likewise it's far too late and a lot more serious, starting to prepare for His coming when He has already been. And He warns us by ending the story with this saying, 'Therefore keep watch, because you do not know the day or the hour.'

Wife's strange behaviour has taught me something. Without His power in our lives, there is a strange emptiness to every day and life becomes dark and directionless. He's the source of power that never fails!

G is for GATES

The deep prints on the strip of grass just outside our entrance told me that all was not right. They were too big and too round for human feet and prior knowledge and experience of such marks immediately made me think the worst. I hopped over the fence that separates our house from the nearby lane and discovered that my premonition has become reality, for there, right along the middle of the front lawn, were more of the same prints, some deeper than the originals. Being inquisitive by nature, I set off around the house and discovered more of the same, some leaving an indentation on a wetter area that would take some considerable time to disappear. But there was no trace of the offending animal or animals more likely, considering the number of hoof prints. They had probably wandered in when we were at work or during the night and left again, either of their own free will or under the direction of their owner who had, thoughtfully, decided not to bother us with his problem, though it was our problem now. Still, if I had only closed the gates, it would never have happened and it's not as if it hadn't happened before. Oh no, I have had several reminders across our lawns of uninvited visitors of the four limbed variety who make a mooing sound, but every time I fail to ignore the warnings, even when I see the blessed animals on the road not a million miles from our home. And they haven't been the only visitors who have wandered up the driveway on the invitation of an open gate. Once we had a goat encamped on our front doorstep for days, who left his calling card nearby. He was a quiet old goat but stubborn and wasn't always willing to accept that his home should be elsewhere. Several times I led him down the road with the enticement of a carrot and several times he followed me back home. It became frustrating for though he wasn't causing any harm, I could see the value of our house dropping drastically by the hour. Can you just imagine the advert. 'For Sale - gentleman's residence with own private goat!' Anyway, once or twice, I went beyond the call of duty and, I suppose, decency but in my frustration I led him all the way, under the cover of darkness, to our neighbour's house, where he began to eat at their hedge and park himself in their driveway. I felt a bit ashamed for that had not been my intention but my shame turned back to frustration when the neighbour, no doubt unable to cope with his visitor, must have pointed him back up the hill and he returned to the doorstep once again, until eventually, someone realised he was missing from their home and retrieved him. If memory serves me correctly, we have also had a pony, the odd horse, several dogs and cats, a multitude of rabbits, squirrels and birds and complete families of mice through the gates, which we rarely close, though I guess, shutting them would not have prevented most of those animals making it to our house.

When I was much younger I used to walk on top of the gate at the entrance to one of our fields, close to home. Its bars were rounded an about five centimetres wide and I would spend ages standing on the pillar at one end before embarking across the top rail and exiting on to the other pillar some four metres away. It was a real balancing act, if you'll excuse the pun, but once I got the hang of it, the task was then to see how many lengths, back and forth, I could complete before falling off. I don't think mum and dad ever knew that I did it and therefore they wouldn't have known that I was world champion gate walker for a gate on their farm. Nor did anyone else in the world , for that matter. I also used the same gate for another 'invented' sport. This time the object was to throw small stones from a distance and try to 'bounce' them off one of the rails. There was a point for every 'hit' and a bonus point if you could manage to strike one of the few, thin upright rails. Needless to say I was also world champion at this event. In the intervening years, I have been disappointed that neither has become an Olympic sport, even in the 'recognised' category!

In Psalm 118, the writer says, 'Open for me the gates of righteousness;I will enter and give thanks to the LORD.This is the gate of the LORD through which the righteous may enter.' And Jesus makes two references to the gate that we should never forget. First, in Matthew, he says, 'Small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.' His message is clear for we cannot find that road until we find the gate, but in John 10 he solves the problem by saying, 'I am the gate; whoever enters through me will be saved. He will come in and go out, and find pasture.' So there you have in a nutshell, the Gospel of Jesus.

I've talked a lot about open gates, because an open gate excludes no one from entering. Find the gate that is Jesus and you find an ever open gate that allows all to enter who seek to travel the road ahead. Don't leave your footprints outside!

G is for GRASS

My wife thinks I'm obsessed with grass. Not the kind that people smoke of course, but the green stuff that surrounds our house on all sides. In fact we live on an island, surrounded by a sea of grass and, during the summer time, I have to dive out, metaphorically speaking, into the great unknown and keep it under control with my trusty lawnmower and strimmer. I've told you about my lawnmower before but my strimmer has seen better days. Now entering its fifteenth year, I begin to wonder if one measures the age of a strimmer in the same way as we count the years of a dog's life. And it's certainly been a dog's life using it, for no other mortal has attempted to assist me in my travails as man and machine swept all before them, including nettles, thistles, docks, long grass and now, as it nears its retirement, short grass on the borders of my lawns. But how faithful it has been, even though my care for it has been less than attentive and the throttle is held on by a piece of string and is now operated by twisting the grip handle to tighten the wire - how ingenious is that? But back to the grass.

I suppose I should be thankful for so much grass. Even when I look beyond the lawns, I discover that we are completely surrounded by fields of the green stuff and on a still, summer night, I often listen to the sound of cattle quietly munching their way up the paddock towards the drinker. On other summer days, the air is filled with the smell of freshly cut grass and the sound of harvesters, tractors and trailers cutting and piling it up in silos all over the countryside. I've had my fair share of that too, mowing grass shortly after the first light and drawing trailer after trailer 'home' to the farm before monotonously rolling the whole heap with a tractor for ages to squash out as much air as possible and so improve the quality of the silage.

I suppose wife has a point though. I do mow the lawns rather often, probably every seven days or so, but any good lawn keeper will tell you that it's easier and quicker to mow if you keep the grass reasonably short all the time. And of course there's nothing nicer than getting out into the fresh air after a day inside at work and just following the old mower round and round the plot. I reckon everyone who mows their lawn has a set pattern or order of doing it, which they think is the quickest and best but no matter how we mow, there is always that great hindrance of having to empty the bag or box every few laps. But that is of no greater annoyance than the fact that in our present changing climate, the summer mow can now extend all the way from February or March right through to November. Thank goodness for December and January! Do i sound a bit obsessive? Well I'm not finished yet. Our lawns consist of two main areas spread around the house. The main lawn was created just after we built our dwelling. I remember well it being levelled, all the stones being gathered from its surface and slightly below and the sower going out to sow handfuls of seed over the whole area. The other lawn, at the rear, just sort of happened over the years. It was once an orchard and just by continually cutting at it and eventually removing the remaining tree stumps, it became an area of short grass and was eventually incorporated into the bigger picture. But the two lawns are totally different in the way they grow. The back lawn grows much more quickly, is made of courser and tougher grass and there are few weeds anywhere between the blades. In contrast the original lawn, sown with the best of seed, has much finer grass, has surrendered certain areas to weeds and is now fighting a losing battle to the advancing armies of the great warrior called 'moss' and as any keen gardener knows, once moss gets a hold it is very difficult to shift.

It always reminds me of the story of the sower and how even good seed, when it sprouts, can have its growth choked by other things so that it eventually withers and dies. But it also tells me that I am responsible for my own spiritual growth and if I allow other areas of my life to become too important or to get a foothold, eventually they take more and more of my time and my life and God is squeezed into a corner. Jesus tells us to 'Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation. The spirit is willing, but the body is weak.'

When I look at my lawn from a distance it looks lovely and green and nobody would suspect the damage that lurks beneath the outer appearance. It is so easy to not notice the change from afar and even us as individuals often fail to see how we are less fervent than we once were for God. I have found that mowing is never enough to remove the offending plants and likewise regular church attendance and being at the prayer meeting doesn't solve our spiritual dryness. The only thing that cures is to weed out what is causing the problem. Time to get down on our knees!

G is for GOD

I remember once, when I was at secondary school, almost being run down by a car on a busy road. My mate was not so fortunate. He was just a few steps in front of me and in the gathering dusk and a multitude of car and street lights had just not noticed the Volkswagen Beetle coming around the corner. To be honest, neither had I, but for some reason I paused, even in my impatience to cross the road and that moment allowed me time to see the car in my peripheral vision and take action. I remember tearing my trouser leg as I jumped back towards the pavement but my mate ended up with a lot of bruising that could have been worse if the driver hadn't spotted him just in time.

When I was eleven, I took up the guitar. I don't know why I chose it as I already had been learning the piano for several years but the six string was to become my instrument ever since and although I have continued to dabble at the ivories, it is the guitar that I always turn to when we sing.

When the boys were old enough and wife and I were still singing at churches and coffee bars around the country, we almost always took them with us. They always tried to help tidy away leads and equipment and more often than not probably hindered more than they helped. Often their playful behaviour in the front row was distracting to more than just their mum and dad, but they got a taste for music and a few years ago, were proficient enough to join us in a band. Now both lead worship at different times and often together.

When I went to university, I studied agriculture but I knew that I probably wouldn't have a career in the subject, even though I was reared on a farm. When the opportunity came to pursue a teaching career, I decided to pursue it and ended up in a classroom, teaching much of the Biology and Chemistry I had learned at university. Yet I never imagined I would end up teaching with my wife in a little primary school only a mile or so from home, the same little school that I had attended as a child. When I met wife for the first time, I guess we both knew that we had found our life partner and soul mate.

You might call it all fate. I call it God. When I look back at different points in my life, I begin to see His hand at work for I believe that He has a plan for my life. I may not always make the decisions that I am meant to make but somehow He still seems to be able to find a way to bring me to where He wants me to be.

So how can I describe Him? The Bible uses many different words including Jehovah, Yahweh, Father, Lord, but I love that Old Testament description that He used of Himself when speaking to Moses before he went to deliver the Israelites. He said, "I am who I am . This is what you are to say to the Israelites: 'I AM has sent me to you.' " What a wonderful description of the God I serve, the God in whom I believe and the God who has watched over me all of my life. To be 'I AM' is to be in the present tense, alive and living today in the twenty first century. But to be 'I AM' is also to be in the past tense because God was 'I AM' in the days of Moses. Yet to be 'I AM' is also the future because tomorrow He will still be the same as He is today and His hand will still be upon my life. In my days of Sunday school, many years ago, I learnt, in my catechism, that 'God is a Spirit, infinite, eternal and unchangeable, in His being, wisdom, power, holiness, justice, goodness and truth' I guess that about sums the matter up better than I could ever do. Except to say that in Him I find love and care for me that is unconditional and that I don't deserve. And while He is the great 'I AM', with the power over the whole universe, He is also my own personal friend because He wants to be. How good is that!

G is for GAS

Our Chemistry laboratories in school were always a concoction of smells that could be detected all along the corridor leading towards the science block. Sometimes it was aromatic, sometimes pungent, occasionally pleasant, often detestable but never avoidable. The labs were situated right beside the cloakrooms or 'bays' as we called them and as you moved through the years, so your occupied bay moved closer to the Chemistry room. On entering the lab, there were strict safety rules that had to be obeyed and although much of our time in the senior classes was spent writing while seated on uncomfortable high stools, we all knew when the rules kicked in during practical work. In the first few years we all learned how to use the Bunsen burner, how to make a smoky flame and how to detect its hottest part. We evaporated water from salt dissolved in it, filtered in a conical flask, made Copper sulphate, tested acids and alkalis and burnt different powders and metals in crucibles. I reckon there is hardly a past pupil who didn't do all of those things in their first couple of years being a chemist.

Yet what we really looked forward to were those afternoons when the teacher let us loose in making gas. Out came the old conical flask again, the huge water bath, the ground glass jars with the petroleum jelly smeared over the cover to make a tight seal, the bee hive shelf and all the rubber and glass tubing for connecting. Then came the moment when the ingredients were mixed together and before long, bubbles of gas were starting to appear in the water. We would spring into action, forcing the water out of the jars and quickly sliding the covers across the base, hoping not to trap any water. By the time the bubbles had stopped appearing and the reactants lay exhausted in the conical flask, we might have collected about three or four jars of gas.

Sometimes the process required heat but usually the reaction generated warmth. There were times when we had to view the whole process form the safety of the outside of the fume cupboard, when the fumes were toxic or at least unpleasant and occasionally the gas wasn't collected by passing it through water at all because it would have dissolved in the liquid before it reached the jars. Then came the time to test the properties to make sure we had collected the right gas. And of course the one we all loved was the lighted splint. So how's this for a memory?

Oxygen relit a glowing splint, Hydrogen made it pop, Carbon dioxide put it out and Nitrogen had no effect at all. Of course the two properties that we didn't need to test were the colour and the smell of these gases because all of them were colourless and odourless. In fact, faced with a jar of each, the only reliable method was to plunge the old lit splint into the gas and that's when you discovered what lay inside the four identical looking jars.

It's true isn't it, that the only reliable method of knowing what a person is really like is to check inside. That's what God does all the time. He doesn't look to our bank balance, the size of our Bible, our shape, the words we say in public, the smile on our faces. No, appearance doesn't matter one jot to Him and I know He's right, for so many people who confess to being followers of Him all often do the same things, sing the same hymns, pray the same prayers and know the same Bible verses, but when the lighted splint penetrates beyond the well crafted exterior, it goes out for there is no real spiritual life inside. Didn't God remind Samuel that 'Man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.'

It's not good to depend on visible properties alone to detect gases. Carbon monoxide is colourless and odourless but can be lethal. Equally it's unwise to put all our faith in what we see in others but rather to put our faith in what we see and know in Jesus. But it's lethal if we think our outward appearance can fool the One who created us. Is your spiritual fire burning inside or did it extinguish some time ago? Oh that we would all explode into action for Him. I think our lives would be anything but colourless!

G is for GIFT

In the last month I have received two CDs that I didn't expect to get. After all, it wasn't my birthday or any other special occasion. It was simply a way of two friends expressing their kindness without either expecting anything in return. I have enjoyed both immensely but more so because not only did I not have to buy them but because of the spirit in which they were given. I guess both had given a little thought to their present as the artists involved are two of my favourites. How nice it is when we give some consideration to the appropriateness of the gifts we buy. It won't be long before the whole cycle of Christmas spending gets underway. My goodness, we are only in mid-November and the Christmas lights are already being turned on this week in some of our local towns. I'm sure, in amongst the presents I'll get will be a pair of socks, a tie or a set of handkerchiefs and while the intentions of the giver are, I'm sure, honourable, like a million other men, socks, ties and hankies are an easy option and dare I say it, one that requires less thought than other presents.

My wife once bought for me a 'hot key' at Christmas. It was a sort of stocking filler because she had given a lot of thought to the other gifts I received on Christmas morning but the hot key puzzled me, just a little. On closer inspection I discovered that a 'hot key' is device that one thrusts into a frozen lock on a winter morning of ice and frost, melting the offending solid and allowing entry to be gained to the vehicle. There was a small battery compartment behind a protruding piece of metal and not much else. Initially it presented two problems. First, these things take ages to get hot enough in order to do their job. I could imagine standing outside the car on a frosty morning at half past seven, waiting for my hot key to reach working temperature. Secondly, since we only get such mornings on a few occasions each year, the hot key was going to be redundant for most of its time on my key ring and the batteries would run down, so that when the next frost arrived, my hot key had no power! So, despite my grateful thanks, the hot key still remains in its package, ready for use.

At school, I went through an adult / adolescent stage where all my ties were funny. By this stage I was a teacher and the children in my class saw the funny side even if some of the adults wondered at times. I had Disney ties, Pink Panther ties, Cartoon ties, ties covered in apples, animals, footballs, Homer Simpson, flags, dollar notes, even the Lone Ranger. So for a couple of Christmases, almost every pupil in my class bought me a funny tie as a present. They all had Santa or reindeers or a Christmas scene emblazoned down the front in the brightest of colours and to cap it all, most had a little button to press so that the tie would play a Christmas tune or carol. I found myself wearing a different tie throughout the winter just so every child who had bought one could see it on their teacher. After a while, the battery power faded and I used to get great delight in pressing all the ties at the same time and hearing all the mingled tunes waning, like a cat uttering its last meaow. But at ;east the children had thought about their giving and bought something that was appropriate. Why, one mother, acutely aware of my expanding collection, presented me with a light green tie with the words 'not another tie' stretching in turquoise letters down its length.

Thinking of gifts at Christmas is important, ensuring that we give appropriately and with thought so that the receiver wants the gift and uses it to help them in some way. Strangely, that's why socks, ties and handkerchiefs can be very suitable, especially later in the year, regardless of how we consider them at the time.

And it is fitting to think about our giving of gifts because when God thought about the gifts that He could give to us, He chose the one thing that He probably didn't want to give away but because of His love for us, He chose the gift of His Son. In doing so, He could have picked nothing more appropriate to meet the needs of every human being, for through that gift we have access to the gift of eternal life with Him. In Romans we find one of the most famous verses in all of the Bible, 'For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.'

For those who accept His Gift, he also sends a further gift of His Spirit to help us each day in our spiritual walk.

When you see God's gift, lying in a manger this Christmas, remember that gift is for you. How appropriate!

G is for GOAL

He had been annoying me for the whole game and it wasn't as if the referee couldn't see or hear what was going on. But, for whatever reason, the man in charge had chosen to ignore it all. It wasn't a simple push in the back, a tug at the shirt or even a heavily disguised elbow in the face. Nor was it a few choice words uttered as we challenged for a ball or ran across the pitch. No, it was much more overt than that, a mixture of taunting, teasing, name calling and tripping. I understood his reasons though I would have hardly called it good sportsmanship. After all our team were older and expected to win comfortably but his team had scored the goal that mattered. It was a friendly only in name, for there were bragging rights attached to victory and lasting shame for us older kids if we lost. And the small handful of supporters who had gathered to witness our execution had firmly nailed their colours to the mast throughout the game. My mind was a mess and I suppose he had won our individual battle without even having to tackle me for as the game grew towards a conclusion, I decided that if victory was beyond us, retaliation was not and it was time to redress the balance of power. Likewise I chose not to be covert in my response. No, this was to be no two footed tackle, no head butt or no premeditated over the top challenge for the ball. It was simply a rush of blood to the head, ranting, mouth foaming kick up the backside, when the ball was halfway towards the other goal. Amidst my tears of frustration and anger, there was an element of satisfaction that you get as a thirteen year old, so I didn't hear the referee's whistle immediately. But I did hear his words. One short sharp sentence consisting of just two words, 'Ian, off!' I pleaded provocation, unfairness, privately thought a few unmentionable words to describe my opponent and the referee but they never passed my lips, because the ref was our minister! I soon realised it was pointless to argue my case and with the taunts still ringing in the background, made my way, shamefully to the touchline and walked home. I had scored a million goals (slight exaggeration there- but you know what I mean) at home, in the playground, in kickabouts and in other games but on this day, I let other things get in the way and ended up missing the goal, letting myself and everyone else down and learned a very harsh lesson. Always keep you eyes and mind on the goal.

Some years later, I'm standing in front of a different type of goal, There is no net, but two long posts with a crossbar. By this stage I have played rugby for many years and kicked a few goals in my time. Now, as I devote my final years on the pitch to the lower division teams, I see that no matter what level you play at, victory is always the goal. There may be fewer taking the time to watch from the sidelines but for those on the pitch every game is a cup final and we win and lose together. I have been place kicking for this team all season, though it was never my job on a regular basis in past years. The ground is wet and sticky and rain has been falling. I have missed a couple of long range penalties that I hit more with hope than expectation on the muddy surface. But we have just scored a try under the posts and my conversion will win the game. I'm not overly confident, though the kick is directly in front of the uprights and only twenty or so yards out. Thoughts of a similar kick for the first fifteen, a couple of years back, that I somehow managed to steer wide, are floating through my brain as is the fact that some of my colleagues on that day are playing with me today and might have good memories. I take refuge in the fact that the other kick was meaningless to the result and I probably wasn't really focused. I begin to see a picture of a famous rugby league player lose a sup final in the sixties by missing a kick in front of the posts. These are the kicks that you put over in your sleep. Somewhere in my mind I feel a lack of confidence in my watching team mates and I think about those missed penalties earlier. This all happens in less than a minute, but the kick is over in a couple of seconds, though over is probably not the correct word to use in this instance as I see it drift wide of the left upright and the referee blows the final whistle. I've kicked a million goals(slight exaggeration there- but you know what I mean) in practice, in other games, from greater distances, on wetter pitches, but on this day I let other things get in the way and ended up missing the goal, letting myself and everyone else down and learned a very harsh lesson. Always keep your eyes and mind on the goal.

Paul, in his writings to the church at Philippi makes it very clear about our goal, as believers, when he says, 'But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead,I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.' And that prize of everlasting life in the presence of our Father in Heaven, is not beyond any of us. But how often we take our eyes of that goal by allowing other things to occupy our thoughts and our time and how often they make some people miss that goal completely. It's all about the proper preparation, knowing your goal and always aiming for it. And it's all about getting rid of the distractions that might affect the sight of our goal. The key of course is that we can never obtain our goal by our own efforts. We need Jesus keeping us pointing in the right direction and we need His Spirit at the centre of all we do. Time to get some coaching from the Master!

G is for GENETICS

I'm not sure what characteristics I inherited from mum and dad, but I don't remember the hair on my mother's head thinning to the point where there was no shade from the sun and I certainly didn't inherit dad's crooked leg. Both of them came from musical families who also were keen in sport so I guess my love of and interest in both stemmed fro that beginning, though I'm not sure what I inherited and what I just grew up with. I was taller than mum, but then most people were, but dad had a much more slender figure, though his brothers would have been more my build. My hair had gone grey-white a few years ago and, in retrospect, I realise that this is a trait present in mum's family. My sister had ginger hair but neither side of the family in the last two generations bore that colour. But I guess, though facially we often exhibit traits of our parents, which prompts the odd individual to say 'he's like his mother,' or 'I can her father in her face,' it's often in other areas that the resemblance is most noticeable. Sometimes it's simply in our laugh or the tone of our voice or maybe a sideways glance. But often it's in our personality and the way we deal with others and cope with life, though I tend to think that much of this is not genetical but based on our experience and possibly reflects how we saw our parents solve issues. Sometimes we learn to copy their solution. Other times we decide that a different route would work better.

In my teaching career, especially at primary school, where you get the opportunity to know the parents, it is amazing how easy is becomes to spot resemblances among siblings and between them and their parents. Even when a new pupil joins school at primary one, it is always possible to see facial similarities that suggest which family name they bear. I love the day when the photographer comes to school and shoots family pictures. It's probably the one time when there is the opportunity to see all the children from the same household in the one place and they fit together just like a jigsaw. They even frown, smile and laugh the same and are often strong or weak at the same subjects. I guess there's some genetics at work there. But I think there are other forces at work too, in making us the individuals we are. I've often heard it said that if you want to know what people are really like, look at their children and I can't say I disagree, for our offspring often only reflect what they see at home, as they struggle to become individuals in their own right. It's probably a lesson to us all in how we should be no different in the home than we are outside its walls for nobody is more discerning than a child and no one is a better imitator. They say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and I hope the many good qualities I see in our two lads are to some degree a reflection not only of their mum and dad but the home that they have known. I'm sure they have other less desirable traits but like any parent, I probably look at them through rose-tinted spectacles!

For years at school and at university, I studied genetics and then taught it for a time so I know that some of the characteristics we inherit form our ancestors are not desirable while others bring unfortunate consequences in the form of disabilities or illnesses that are rarely curable and only controllable for a time. But I also know that our genes are not alone responsible for the way we grow up and much of our shaping comes from the environment in which we exist. So while our hair colour or eye colour, colour blindness or haemophilia may be predetermined, much of our personality may be moulded by our home, our friends or lack of them, the partner we choose for life, our job, our finances, the country where we live or even the schools we attended and we reflect a little piece of each at different times in our lives.

Though God became my spiritual father many years ago, I know I have not always reflected Him in the way I have lived but often have have borne the traits that are more associated with the world around me. As my faith has deepened and I have learned more about Him over the years, so my desire to be more like Him increases to the point where I want to reflect Him in my life for others to see. The strange thing is that the more we get to know Him the more our faces and our actions reflect Him without us being conscious of trying. And the less we reflect what we see in the world. I suppose it's all about giving up self for Himself, giving up happiness for true joy and never giving up, even in the face of temptation. The writer of Proverbs reminds us 'As water reflects a face, so a man's heart reflects the man.' So if you're 'born again' isn't it time it showed up in your genes!

G is for GRAMOPHONE

I once heard my mum on the radio when I was travelling along in the car. It was a surprise, maybe more of a shock actually, for she never courted fame or publicity even if it was going to last only a few minutes. But this day she had put such irrelevances to the back of her mind when she lifted the phone to dial. It was a local BBC morning programme in which the presenter, at some stage, played a few seconds of a song and invited listeners to ring in with their answer. Mum sounded more formal, even more proper than usual, but this was radio, going out to the four corners of the province and you never knew who might be listening, so it was essential not to sound like you had just fallen out of a hedge. But there wasn't even a hint of humour in her voice, nor enjoyment that she was live to the nation and much as the presenter tried to stretch the interview with some polite yet pointless conversation, she had only one thought in her mind and would not be railroaded in another direction. I don't remember her complete answer but I do know that the voice in question belonged to a famous tenor from years gone by called John McCormack and that the presenter, though slightly surprised, had to admit that she was correct. I knew she had got it right anyway, so there was no need to hear the presenter's confirmation because she had told me the previous day that she knew the answer. You see, she had the very song in question on an old seventy-eight in a rather dilapidated cardboard box in an upstairs room.

The box had indeed seen better days and it contained a dozen or so seventy-eight records dating way back. They were made of shellac, I think, a much thicker and heavier material record than the LPs that would usurp their position by the sixties. We had a record player at the time which had, on its 'arm' a sort of double stylus to allow it to play both LPs and seventy-eights and you twisted a little tag at one end which was set at red for the newer records and green for the likes of John McCormack. But it was another old rickety box sitting upstairs that often grabbed my attention. I don't know how the gramophone came into our possession though I suspect mum had brought it from home. It was brown and badly scuffed on the outside but when opened, the hinged lid sat in an upright position exposing a beautiful silver turntable covered in a soft, rubber mat. On the right side was an ornate arm and what seemed like an intricate 'needle' arrangement that tracked the grooves on the records. There was no electricity or even battery supply to the unit, but a wind up handle on one side converted human power into motion and was more than sufficient to provide all the enjoyment required.

I often took out an old record from its paper sleeve and gave it a spin on the turntable. It seemed to move remarkably quickly and it was some time before my young, inquisitive mind began to piece together the jigsaw and come to the realisation that the meaning of seventy-eight, forty-five and thirty- three and a third was the number of times the record revolved on the turntable in one minute. My LP or should I say thirty-three and a third, seemed to rotate so slowly in comparison but it had two distinct advantages over its predecessor. First the seventy-eight record was so brittle that if it was dropped, most likely it would break into several pieces and thus be rendered unusable. But secondly and more importantly, the sound quality just didn't compare to that produced by the vinyl LPs and those two problems alone probably accelerated its demise as technology marched on. But it was still so exciting to a young mind, to be able to hear real live sound, recorded so many years previously from people now long gone and to do it all without the need for electricity.

Isn't it funny watching how, over the years, technology has changed and improved the way we listen to music, from 78s to LPs to CDs to MP3s but despite the advantages and drawbacks of each system, essentially all we want to do is to listen to music. With each new advance, there are always those who refuse to move on, who are quite happy with a gramophone in preference to an ipod. I suppose, in our churches, things are not a lot different in our approach to telling others about Jesus and there can often be an attitude of, 'if it was good enough for my father, it's good enough for me.' While I don't discard such opinions, it always leaves me wondering 'but is that good enough for everybody'. We live in a different world to the one I even knew as a boy, in a world where each generation is less steeped in church and one in which children no longer know basic Bible stories. We constantly come into contact with non-church attenders so can we still apply 78 methods to an ipod generation. I'm not so sure. A friend of mine often says in his approach to evangelism that he wants to be radical and conservative. Paul, in his letter to the Hebrews writes that 'Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.' Let's face it. We want everyone to hear the same music, for He hasn't changed but we're no longer a generation of gramophone players!

G is for GRAVEYARDS

I wouldn't be a frequent visitor to graveyards, though the frequency has probably increased over the years, but I'm not dying to go to one, if you see what I mean. The closest graveyard is about a quarter of a mile from our house, beside the local Presbyterian church. It's where the family members who share my surname are buried, in two different plots. In one grave are my most recent ancestors as far back as my great grandfather and his wife and as far forward as less than two years ago when mum was laid to rest beside her husband of over fifty years. Less than thirty yards away, in the part that was new not so many years ago, but has now only a dwindling number of spaces, a headstone records the passing of my uncle and only other close relative. It's a sobering thought that my name will one day be engraved on a piece of stone within this silent city. But this is not a sad reflection on lost relatives, but a chance to muse on the strange and yet interesting fact that graveyards are, despite their inhabitants, wonderful examples of living history on all our doorsteps.

I've always been intrigued by the 'stories behind the headstones', those inscriptions that state the facts but leave the rest to the imagination. Stories of babies and children, of young men who went to war, of whole families reunited beneath the soil, of deaths during the famine years, of those who reached their century on earth and of others who just missed it, of names no longer in the area, of victims of violence in the last forty years in our country. Yes, every headstone has its own story to tell and though nobody tells it better than those who can no longer speak, it is often captivating to speculate.

One headstone in our graveyard bears the name of the deceased and three simple words, 'Poet and Preacher'. I never knew the man in question, though he was minister in the adjoining church before I entered the world, but my dad and he were friends and lived just across the hedge from each other. However such a simple inscription hides the very varied abilities and story of the man they called WR Rodgers. It's a story that even the most imaginative mind would fail to conjure up about the poet and preacher. He was minister in the church for just over ten years from the mid thirties but by this time had already completed an English degree at Queen's and passed though theological college. After his resignation from the ministry, he wrote in Oxford, worked as a script writer and producer for the BBC, remarried after the death of his first wife and then lectured and wrote in two different colleges in California. He published volumes of poetry and prose, was a member of various literary groups and Arts councils, wrote many letters and received funding from a variety of sources such was his standing amongst literary critics. Not bad for a poet and a preacher!

In our village graveyard, stands one wall of the original church, a testimony to an earlier age when community relationships between the two main religious groups was no less tense. Close by stands the gravestone that bears the name Cope, a lasting memory to a time when this family, from England, lived in the two big houses on the Manor estate and provided work for many of the locals, even ensuring survival for some during the famine. Their legacy includes the local primary school, occupying its third building but still bearing their name and the absence of any public houses in the village!

As I walk through some of the local graveyards, on what I now call 'official business' of attending a funeral, I am struck by the number of names to which I can now put faces and memories. For them, I don't need to conjure up any imaginative story, for I lived through part of theirs already. Ah the joys of growing older!

Anyway, this whole journey makes me wonder what would be a fitting epitaph for each of us and whether someone else's opinion would accurately reflect our own private thoughts about the impression we had made. Like Enoch, would it read 'he walked with God', or like Peter 'upon this rock'. Maybe we will have 'the wisdom of Solomon', 'the patience of Job' or just the word 'christian'. For me the greatest inscription that could have been written on a gravestone would have been 'He is not here, He is risen', but it never was for the evidence was there for all to see.

Like I say, every gravestone tells a story. Time to start a new chapter?

G is for GEORGE

Outside of my close family, he's my best friend, even though he supports Manchester United and lives on the other side of the world. So let me tell you about him. This is my story, not his.
George was born not far from Moy just before the beginning of the sixties decade. His home townland went under the delightfully quaint name of Derryscollop and he lived up a short lane with his dad, mum and two sisters, in the shadow of a large clump of trees known as The Grove. It was a small, close community and the children in the area spent much of their time kicking a ball about under the trees and playing their games in the surrounding fields. Growing up next door was Cecil, several years older than George and an avid Spurs supporter, but they both got along famously, often reenacting important football games and impersonating famous players that they idolised in their respective teams. George and his sisters went along to the local Methodist church just over a mile from their home and they all came along to the CE in our church, several miles away, every Friday night. He and Cecil also joined the Campaigners, a local youth organisation in the church and it was in these two latter places that our paths first crossed, though not to any significant degree. By this stage, I was already part of a singing group with his sisters though after he moved to the Royal school, I began to look out more for the girls' kid brother.
The Troubles were escalating in the province and George had only finished one year at grammar school when his dad made the brave decision to emigrate to Australia. The family left in 1971 and I was sad to see them go for they were all good friends. For the next few years our only contact was through a few letters from his sister, Heather, whom I wrote about some weeks ago and her mother, but George and I had basically lost touch, though the written word always kept me informed of his whereabouts. In 1979, he came back to spend time with his relatives and neighbours and our paths crossed once again, not for any great length of time but enough for us both to realise that we had a lot in common. It was uncanny the way we viewed life and how our interests overlapped and I guess, over several late night / early morning chats, we knew a special bond was developing. There was much catching up to do, many things to reminisce about and so much of the world to put right and through it all, our friendship grew. When he left, we picked up the comradeship through letters and phone calls and were able to follow each other's path with interest.
When wife and I got married several years later, we asked him to be our Best Man, but the distance and the constraints of his job prevented it happening, though I still remember well the phone calls that he made to both of us on that morning. A few years later, George got himself hitched to a lovely Aussie lass called Julie and now they have three adorable kidlets (his word - not mine) who are growing up into delightful young ladies. He has returned on a regular basis to his place of birth and last year brought the whole family to stay with us during the summer. Needless to say, there were many late nights and much of the world was again put right over coffee. Then just this summer came an added bonus when he returned, unexpectedly, to accompany his mum, who had decided to see her kinfolk once again. More late nights, more problems solved and we even managed to find an Aussie restaurant in our local town!
And as time moves on I promise myself that some day, I'll visit him in his own backyard but for now, we'll keep the friendship going through emails and phone calls, like the one that woke me at seven o'clock on Monday morning, just to say hello.



So what about George the person. He's a keen sportsman, a gifted footballer and an athlete of considerable ability, especially in middle distance and marathon running. He plays golf off a very commendable handicap and has a great sporting intelligence in conversation, though for some reason he thought Ireland might win the rugby World Cup. I think I put that down to nationalistic delusion. Years of wear and tear on his legs have just about put paid to his running career but every day he walks a brisk few miles at a pace that most of us would call running. He has a steely determination to succeed, is well organised, extremely sociable and his teaching career has brought him to run the primary school right on his doorstep, a bit like ourselves.


It hasn't all been plain sailing. Just a year ago he lost his dad and previously his sister had passed away though illness. But George is a survivor and his outlook on life is always positive and optimistic, even in the darkest moments. He's an Australian now, in every way, but somewhere, in the corner of his mind, there is a little piece of Northern Ireland stored away for old time's sake and for his two friends on the hill.

But the loveliest thing about George is that the faith that he found in a small corner of this province is not only alive and well, but flourishing in a small town called Yinnar, not far from Melbourne. Time changes many things but for George it has never changed his love for and belief in his Saviour who says ' Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.' At the other end of the world, George is living proof of a God who not only transcends time but also distance. G'day!

G is for GOLF

You see I have this problem. I think I should be able to play the stupid game. After all, I was competent at all the ball sports I tried. I represented my school at basketball and rugby, played the latter at a firsts level with my club for many years, regularly took part in summer soccer tournaments and in five a side games, played tennis almost non stop in the warmer days, dabbled in cricket and even had the occasional run out at hockey in charity games. The first time I realised that, maybe in terms of sport and particularly golf, the world was not always round was when I encountered one of my friends hitting a golf ball as sweetly as I thought I could kick a rugby ball. The guy had no history of sporting prowess in any field, having had a brief flirtation with both rugby and hockey at school and in the lower echelons of his chosen club but without any possibility of a lasting and meaningful relationship. Yet here he was, striking that little sphere perfectly with that lovely sweet sound of metal on ball that brings a satisfied smile to a golfer's face. And he did it again, several times. The frustrating thing for me was that I had thought every shot was excellent, but he was less than impressed with all his efforts, blaming the way he held the club, his less than perfect stance, his follow through, his head coming up too quickly, his general preparation. This was different to other sports, for there was no one else to blame only yourself. It was all about man and his club versus ball, about being both mentally and physically in tune. It wasn't about the other guy, the late tackle, the wind, the bad conditions underfoot, the unfair referee, playing away from home, the insensitive crowd, the injury time, the sending off, the lack of video replays or any other excuse most sportsman make for their lack of success. No this was about one man, or woman and their preparation.

Since that day, many years ago, I have encountered many such individuals, who have found in golf a freedom to express their sporting interests when other such doors closed. Others have discovered a new lease of life when age or injury prevented them from continuing to pursue the chosen sport of their youth. Still others have acquired a new pastime in their senior years that not only helped maintain their health but provided a social environment in which they thrived. And there are many for whom golf has always been their chosen sport and in the past few years, as new clubs spring up in many areas of the country, more young people are forsaking the claims of soccer, rugby, hockey or gaelic sports for the greens and fairways. But they all share two things in common, no matter their background in coming to the sport. The first is a desire to get better, to get every shot just right and to compete against and overcome their own inadequacies. You see it brings a certain amount of satisfaction, of fulfillment even, when the ball sails down the fairway the way you had intended or into the hole from the edge of the green. But the second common denominator for all golfers is the sense of frustration when it all goes wrong. It might only be one hole out of eighteen, but that's the one you remember until the next time.

The last time I ventured out on to a golf course was over four years ago. It was a miserable day, the course was waterlogged in places and I'm beginning to sound like a sportsman full of excuses. I had relied on my ability at other sports to carry me through, but in the watery conditions, I sunk without trace. In truth, I was out of my depth.No real preparation apart from a couple of buckets of balls on the driving range and the odd overheard instruction from an expert to pupils nearby. It wasn't a complete disaster but one par hole hardly merits mention amongst the unmentionables. I now know that if I'm going to enjoy playing the game, I need to go and learn from an expert and I need to practice regularly, which is actually how I developed at all the other sports. Both will cost time and money but if I'm really serious about it, that's the deal. Ah well, maybe sometime!

So, what have you learned from my experience. Maybe you're already a proficient golfer or maybe you struggle with even driving off the tee. Or maybe it's not golf where you struggle at all. Maybe it's all this God thing that has you frustrated. You just don't get it or like me with the golf you don't take it too seriously but you might some day. Maybe God is a big deal in your life but it's more on a social level and you fit it in when you can. Or maybe God's calling you to be more dedicated to Him and you're not sure. You see, no matter where you are in your relationship with God, there is a cost if you want more. Jesus says 'What good is it for a man to gain the whole world, yet forfeit his soul?' Learning from the Master isn't easy but without it we can never be more like Him. He tells us 'Anyone who does not carry his cross and follow me cannot be my disciple.'

A good friend of mine spent over a year just hitting balls on the practice range and getting lessons from a professional. In all that time he never ventured on to the course. But now he plays with confidence and he still practises. I think it's time to go back to the Expert.

G is for GRANNIES

Dad's mum lived into her nineties. I knew her from her mid-seventies so I had missed the most of her life and she, mine. Her husband had already died before I was born, so I only have a mental picture of that grandfather, formed by the stories that have filtered through from family and other sources. Granny subsequently lived with us for all of her life, since dad and mum had moved into the family home after their marriage. I have often thought that this must have been a difficult adjustment for mum, to live with her in-laws, but she seemed to take it in her stride, though she may not have revealed publicly how she felt with this arrangement at times. Granny was a slight woman with a strong independence though I was too young to notice and she was too old to show it. In my time she rarely left the house and in her last years was prone to broken bones and frailty, though her heart was strong. We got on famously together, except for Thursday nights, when Top of the Pops came on the TV. In my insatiable desire to keep up with the music scene and a complete absence of computers, mp3 players, ipods, even cassettes, I took to recording the programme on a reel to reel tape recorder. There were no DIN sockets, phono plugs or headphone connectors on either TV or recorder, so the best and indeed only recording was made using the microphone that had come with the tape device. And that's the way I built up my early music collection, along with some other recordings obtained from an intermittent signal belonging to Radio Caroline and Luxembourg. The quality wouldn't have satisfied today's musos but I only heard the tunes amongst the hiss, crackles and dropouts. And that was where granny came in, for, apart from the obvious technical inefficiencies of the system, the microphone recorded everything it heard and that often included loud questions or statements from a half-deaf grandmother right in the middle of the one track I wanted to record. I have it somewhere, for posterity.




Mum's mum was one of the warmest people you could meet. She had nine children, reared them all on a shoestring and for much of the time, when her husband was in America, did it alone, first in their house in Armagh and then in Belfast. In the orchard city, she also ran a cafe and all her earnings went towards supporting her children and giving them the best chance in life. In later years when the grandchildren came along, she showed equal enthusiasm and care for them and all of us loved going to visit her, simply because she always had time for us and would shower us with kindness. She loved nothing better than having all her children and their families around her on Boxing Day and then she would spend the whole day, and probably most of Christmas Day too, preparing and cooking for kindness was the only language she knew. When she died, I was in Scotland and couldn't get home for her burial but I didn't need to be there to remember the wonderful person she was. She had a great faith, was a committed Christian, but strangely, I don't remember her going to church very often when the family moved to Belfast. I guess she never really fitted in to the life of the city but she spent daily time with God and loved to gather us all around the piano to sing. Her lasting wish was that the old grand piano that her husband had bought in a market for pittance, would be mine when she died and it now stands ornately in our good room and countless young children take their first steps at piano on its sepia coloured keys under the direction of her great grandson. Hasn't God a great way of enlarging our vision?



Mum became a granny twenty one years ago. Like myself with my own grannies, the boys only got to know her in her later life but I'm glad they did. She had so many of the traits of her own mother, was self-sacrificial, caring, kind and had a deep faith in her spiritual Father. She often cared for the boys' physical needs when we were at work but she also saw to their spiritual hunger on a regular basis, both at home and in her role as leader of the church Christian Endeavour. Every Friday she lifted them and got them involved in helping her to get organised for the night and there was always the lure of the sweetie bag on the way home. She was wise yet prudent with her advice as we raised them and she prayed for them every day. She was proud of their achievements and I have no doubt that being a granny added a new dimension to her life that she had never thought about before. In her last days, as her life came to a close, they spent much time with her and before her final breath, she wrote to both of them, expressing the joy that they had brought to her life and the hope that their faith would grow even deeper. I don't know what she prayed for concerning them in those last days but I know that her influence and her prayers have made an impact as both her grandsons continue to seek God's will in their lives on a daily basis. She would be a very proud grandmother now.




I was reminded of all this while reading about Paul and his young protege and 'true son in the faith' , Timothy, whom he trusted enough to send to the church at Thessalonica to report of its growth and to encourage them. Their paths had first crossed at Lystra on one of Paul's missionary journeys but he had never forgotten the young man whom he would later describe as 'my fellow worker' and 'faithful to the Lord'. But I am drawn to another verse in Paul's second letter to Timothy, chapter one and verse five where he write, 'I have been reminded of your sincere faith, which first lived in your grandmother Lois and in your mother Eunice and, I am persuaded, now lives in you also.' As I read this verse and think of not only my granny but also my mother and my wife and now see that same faith developed in the two lads, I realise that nothing happens by accident, when God is in control. May we today remember those grannies, many long gone to glory, who bore the message faithfully so that we might know His goodness in our lives.And may all you grannies realise that you're never too old to make an impression.