C is for CANDY

I haven't made any new year resolutions at all this year. I don't think I made any last December either but there are always a few thoughts running around my head as we approach another January that I probably should pay more heed to than I do. Still, it always strikes me as a bit odd why people wait right until the start of a new year before taking action about something that has possibly become a bit of a vice in their lives. I read on the news this morning that January is the most popular month to give up smoking with one in every eight smokers making an attempt to stop. It reminds me of a good friend who has tried numerous times and many new years to give up the weed and yet on the last day of the year smokes as many as he can with the thought that it will be his last day inhaling nicotine. He has failed miserably every time - so far. For others today will be the day they resolve to do something about their over expanded waistlines, their excessive use of alcohol, their chocolate addiction, their sweet craving or some other area that has become vice-like in its control. Many will use today in the same way as the smokers to have their last plate of chips, bar of chocolate, packet of candy, pint of lager, glass of whisky and most will fail miserably. Why? Because they enjoy too much what they are trying to give up. Why else would they plan to stop on a certain day of the year, make little effort or preparation before that day and on the the eve of their resolution coming into effect, have one last binge, just for old time's sake?

I heard a story yesterday from a good friend in church. It involves a candy cane, like the picture above and illustrates best the resolution or change we all need to consider, not just on New Year's Eve but on any day of the year. Since the late sixteen hundreds, white sugar sticks or candy canes, bent into the shape of a shepherd's crook had been given out by a German choirmaster to children in church at Christmas. At the beginning of the last century, however, red stripes and later green stripes began to appear in the sticks and the story goes that an Indiana candy maker designed them that way to tell the true story of Christmas. So here it is.

The shape of the shepherd's staff is to remind us that the first people to hear of the baby Jesus after His birth were shepherds but it also is a symbol of the fact that Jesus often referred to Himself as The Good Shepherd. If you turn the cane upside down, it represents the letter J for Jesus which means 'He shall save His people from their sins'. Like all confectionery. the candy cane is sweet and this is to tells us that we are fed on the sweet milk of the Gospel for our salvation and it is also hard because Jesus is the rock of our salvation.

The white of the candy cane not only reminds us that His mother was a virgin, but also that He lived a sinless life on earth and that our lives can be made as white as snow if we believe in Him. The original candy cane had three small red stripes that represented the marks of the whips on His body through which we are healed, but it also has one thicker red stripe that symbolised the blood that He shed for each person though His death. The green stripe that was added later came to represent not only God's gift to us, since green is the colour of giving, but also the new growth that happens in our lives when we believe.

Like all resolutions, to follow the God illustrated in the candy cane, needs a lot of thought and commitment on our part, so that in a few days we are not drawn back to the life that we once lived. The difference, however, in this case is that Jesus is there constantly to help us and He also sends His spirit to live in us and direct our lives. That doesn't mean we are never tempted to go back to the old vices but it does mean we have help to overcome temptation. In truth, there is nothing wrong with temptation, it's the giving in that does the damage. The Psalmist tells us 'God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.'

As we struggle with our candy canes, our cigarettes, our food mountains, our empty bottles and all the other things we want to leave in 2007, take the advice of Isaiah when he writes 'This is what the Lord says........Forget the former things;do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing!Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the desert and streams in the wasteland.'

May you be successful in your resolutions next year, may it be a year worth remembering for all the right reasons and may you fins the Jesus of the candy cane story bringing sweetness to your every day. Happy new Year.

C is for COFFEE

They tell me that coffee is an acquired taste, that you just don't wake up one morning and love the stuff, but that its flavour actually has to grow on you so that over a period of time you just come to really like it. I don't know the answer to that but I guess there's a high element of truth in it. We didn't have coffee in our house when I grew up. Tea was the national and local drink of the time and it had to be well stewed on the cooker before serving. Dad liked to be the last to get a pour and he always said that it had to be so strong that you could stand on it before he would drink it. But coffee he and mum never really touched. We did have a bottle of Camp coffee in one of the cupboards though it really wasn't coffee at all, but a mixture of water, coffee, chicory and sugar in a brown liquid that wasn't the least bit appetising and that mum only used when baking a coffee cake.

I started to drink coffee in my late teens. It happened sort of by accident when I was a poor student. IN my room there was no way of keeping milk fresh for tea and I had begun to use Marvel milk powder as a substitute but it wasn't terribly appealing and, finding black tea just too bitter for the taste buds, bought a jar of Nescafe one day and began to persevere. It wasn't love at first sight and, quite honestly, in those early days of my addiction, I would have preferred the old teapot. At the same time I abandoned the whole concept of sugar in hot drinks as well, again mainly from a financial position rather than one of health consciousness and suddenly began to discover the subtle flavours of the beverages that, until then, had been masked by a common sweetness. And so began my love affair with coffee.

But how times have changed. Back then, few people went out for coffee, preferring to grab a quick cup of tea at home before going to town or else, shuffling into a back street cafe for a snack before leaving town. Now there is an abundance of coffee shops and cafes all plying their wares and offering such a range of delicacies that hitherto didn't seem to exist. Fewer people now seem content with a straight cup of coffee, black or white when you can have a Cappuccino, a latte, a mocha, an espresso, a machiatto, an americano or even an iced coffee. And the whole coffee drinking thing has become a social event, with cafes providing sofas and comfy chairs to entice their customers and not seemingly worried if they sit for an hour or two, chatting or reading. I have to admit I too have a weakness for sitting in a Starbucks, a Costa or an O'Briens and just watching the world go by over the rim of my Cappuccino.

At home we have several containers for preparing coffee including a a large silver percolator that was a wedding present, a coffee plunger and a small, recent addition that is essentially a mini percolator which can be placed on top of a hob. But for some reason we almost always reach for the convenience of a jar of the instant stuff and although some of it is surprisingly good, none of it really compares with the flavour of the real thing. A few years back, in America, I fell in love with hazelnut flavoured coffee and on my return went to great lengths to acquire some for home, eventually sourcing a firm in England who delivered it by post at a rather inflated price. It was the instant variety but it tasted so good and then for a short time a local supermarket stocked it as well. When the supply ran out I never bothered again, until recently when my son returned from a stateside trip and brought back some of the real thing. How great it was, once again to taste that flavour that I had almost forgotten.

I have drunk coffee in many different places, in airports across the world, on safari in Africa, at the beach, in the Vatican, on top of a mountain and yesterday, beside a river not more than a few hundred yards from home. I sat on an old tree stump, in the cold, late evening as the sun descended beyond view, watching the fast flowing, full river rush by with my only company an inquisitive squirrel that approached and stopped briefly for a few minutes before heading to his home just above my head. The coffee was beautiful, hot and from a flask and it warmed me inside and out and in the chill of the end of the day I took time to reflect on a year that has almost gone.

It's a year in which God has become even more real as my faith has grown deeper and where I have been constantly aware of God having a plan for my life. It hasn't always been a year of success and I know, like an other human being, there have been times when I have failed to live to His high standards. It's been a year when I have had many spiritual discussions, read worship books,listened to worship songs and have done some writing over a cup of coffee. And it's a year when I have proved to myself that despite all the various ways in which Christianity is presented to the world, unless Jesus is right at the centre, it soon loses its flavour. He said 'I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.'

At the end of another year, maybe you need to rediscover the taste of Jesus that was once in your life and realise how good it is or maybe you need to taste His goodness for the first time. Why not think about it over a cup of coffee today?

Taste and see that the LORD is good; blessed is the man who takes refuge in him.. (Psalm 34v8)

C is for COPE

It was a red bricked building with little yellow bricks making a nice, interlocking design on the corners. The roof was slated and several chimneys jutted out through openings of the one storey creation. As you walked in through the front gates, the first sight to greet your eyes was the rather strange hexagonal shaped section and to its immediate right, the main entrance which was nothing more than a normal house front door. The whole building, from the outside, bore little resemblance to a school and sat adjacent to a much larger two storey dwelling house that was designed and built using the same brick but in all my time there, was not related to the educational establishment. The school building and, I presume , the neighbouring house, had first appeared in the early nineteen hundreds to replace the original school established by the Cope family who owned the large estate in the village and provided work for many of its inhabitants and by the time I was leaving, it would only have a few more years to operate as a school.

Outside the hexagon, there was a small playground at the front that served as a safe haven for the younger children but also was the area where all classes lined up at the start of school and the end of break and lunch times when the dreaded hand bell rang. It was surrounded on two sides by a small garden area that the senior pupils regularly attended to during nature study classes and that stopped abruptly on reaching the main playground. This was a rectangular area, clearly in need of fresh tarmac but the numerous small cracks and mini potholes always added interest to the daily football games among the senior boys who honed their skills every morning before class and at other breaks, using a hairless tennis ball instead of the regulation size. At one end was the small shed that housed the coal and coke for the stoves and at the other end, on the extreme left corner, sat the block of outside toilets that was our only escape route form class during the day. These were primitive to say the least and amounted to little more than a green wooden seat covering a hole in a slab of concrete below which was a very long drop! It certainly wasn't an incentive to escape class in the middle of a cold frosty morning! Directly opposite the toilets was a small backyard that housed odds and ends and led directly into the school.

Inside the front porch were three doors that led to the classrooms and a short corridor that brought you into the hexagon. This was the cloakroom area, where coats and bags were hung but also where the cooks washed up after dinner and visiting doctors and nurses encamped when carrying out their medical inspections. So this was where I received all those early vaccinations against tetanus, diphtheria and whooping cough and came to know the hexagon as a place of refuge and also of dread. On the left of the front hall was the the door into the junior part of the school that looked out over the main playground and also doubled as the serving area for the cooks at lunch time. Every day, they would set up a couple of long tables on top of which were set a selection of containers that had arrived by van from the nearby school in Richhill as we had no kitchens on site. Everyone got their dinner and pudding at this point and then returned to their own classroom to eat it, before scraping and depositing their plates in large tubs in the hexagon.

The two other doors led to the remaining classrooms which were separated by a glass partition that could be pulled back along its rollers to make one huge room. On the night of the Christmas concert or other parent evenings, the desks were taken out and replaced with chairs, the partition was folded back and the wooden platform at the front of the senior room, on which the master's desk usually sat, was raised to about three feet off the ground by placing some of the desks underneath it.

Every classroom had a stove and a long, thin bucket full of coke beside it and in winter all the milk bottles sat in their crate to defrost. The chalkboards were of a rolling type with two or three surfaces that could be exposed for writing by pulling the board downwards and apart form a few cupboards and library containers the only other memorable object that was only in the senior room was the cane, that sometimes lay above a wooden cupboard and at other times sat beside it.

Many years have passed since those primary school years and the building has, in the intervening period, been a fashionable restaurant and is now a dwelling house, but the external fabric and character have been preserved so that essentially it still looks like the school I used to see when I walked in through the front gates. And I still go to the school every week day, this time to teach and hopefully also to learn. Though the school is no longer in the same place and most of its artifacts are now gone, one thing still remains. For in my room, at my desk is the wooden chair that my master once occupied when I was a pupil. I hope I fill it as adequately and He did.

I'm still learning from the Master, though I know I'll never fill His shoes adequately but He encourages me every day to grow to be more like Him by following the example He has set me. The apostle John writes 'God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in him. In this way, love is made complete among us so that we will have confidence on the day of judgment, because in this world we are like him.' Jesus has left the greatest legacy in showing us how we should more holy lives in keeping with His example and His Word is full of instruction to help us. He tells us to ' go into all the world and preach the good news to all creation.' That is what the Master has handed down to each of us who believe. Are we ready to sit in His chair?

C is for CHRISTMAS

So, was it worth all the fuss in the end? All the endless lists of things to do, presents to buy, food to get, cards to send, people to visit and all for just one day. I don't know of any other day in the whole of the year which requires so much preparation and often causes so much consternation among individuals. For weeks, we spend our time wrapping, putting up decorations, standing in queues, rushing, carrying plastic bags with a variety of shop motifs displayed, buying stamps, checking who has sent us cards and who hasn't, dreading that a card might arrive from someone whom we have forgotten about. And as the big day gets closer we become more frantic, buying extra bottles of liquid refreshment, more food just in case we run out, a few extra stocking fillers for our nearest and dearest and, inevitably, even on Christmas Eve many of us will be found back out in the towns, with just a few small things on a list that we forgot about and must have before the twenty fifth. We even find time to fit in a few carol services and maybe even a Christmas Eve gathering at church before the final preparations begin. Then the day arrives and the kids are up at four o'clock to check that Santa has left everything they asked for and we are dragged out of bed at an ungodly hour to share in their happiness, maybe even record it for posterity with our camera or video recorder, while cartoons blare from the television and compete with the Now 150 CD that you wish Santa had forgotten about in their stocking. Oh well, there's no point in going back to bed now, after all it will be daylight in less than four hours so we make a cup of tea, change bread into toast and amid the tonnes of wrapping paper spread around the room, the noise and the toys we start to prepare dinner.

Turkey stuffed, ham wrapped, bacon rolls ready, roasties swimming in goose fat, for the experts say that is the only way to cook them, potatoes peeled, vegetables sliced, gravy in the saucepan and then when everything is cooking nicely it's off to church where there is just time to sing a few carols, sit uncomfortably through the shortest sermon the minister preaches all year, wish him and everyone else a Happy Christmas and then it's back to the kitchen for the next three hours to check on the turkey and trimmings and prepare the plum pudding and the other desserts, before setting the table for the big event. Then the family start to arrive so during the short interlude from the kitchen, hair is tidied, clothes are straightened and everyone is welcomed into the living room and offered drinks and maybe a mince pie. Oh no, we forgot to buy mince pies! The day is ruined! How can we last the whole of Christmas Day without mince pies? Surely they are the very centre of Christmas Day. We wonder if a local garage shop might be open, just for a few hours but there is just no time to go there so the relatives have to make do with just a piece of Christmas cake and we detect a slight disappointment on their part? Anyway, no time to dwell on it, there's dinner to be cooked. By early afternoon, everything is ready, though the bacon rolls are a bit crisp and a few roasties are slightly burnt. Never mind, we'll hide the burnt bits on our own plate. We wonder will the vegetables be warm enough and is that gravy too thin? We hope the prawns are not off and what about the guests who don't like prawn cocktail? We better have a tin of mandarin oranges just for them. OH dear where did we leave the crackers? They are quickly distributed around the table but, as usual, they're slightly disappointing when pulled and only grandad wears his paper hat. Where has all the festive spirit gone?

BY late afternoon, Christmas dinner is just a pile of empty plates and while everyone struggles off to watch the Queen or sleep, we try to bring some normality to the recently created bomb site and just as darkness begins to fall normality is restored, all the dishes are washed, leftovers are binned or covered in cling film for the next day and it's time to sit down and relax. This is normally the time when someone suggests that a cup of tea, a few turkey sandwiches, some Christmas cake and a mince pie would be nice. OH no, they still want mince pies! Anyway, some time late in the evening, everyone filters home and just before we collapse in a heap there is time to catch an hour or two of television and then it's off to bed. So, was it worth all the fuss in the end?

When I was young, things weren't a lot different though I don't remember the build up to the big day ever being as frantic as it is now and certainly if mum was uneasy, she didn't show it. Our Christmas Day tended to be fairly low key, just the four of us, time for church in the morning, a relaxed dinner in the middle of the day, a helping hand with all the washing up, in the days before automatic dishwashers and everything cleared away long before the Queen was ready to make her speech to the nation. There was plenty of time for everyone to sit down and watch television, go for a walk, have a snooze or read a book and maybe catch a cup of tea and a sandwich late in the day. I reckon if you're a child of the sixties or seventies then that's the way you remember Christmas. Oh and before I forget, it's Jesus' birthday too.

'But the angel said to her, "Do not be afraid, Mary, you have found favor with God.You will be with child and give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will never end.'

Mince pies aren't really important in the end!

R is for REVISE

There were two times of the year that, like most kids, I didn't look forward to with any excitement or pleasure at school, the dates of the school exams. Normally they were held either just before Christmas or in early January and then again in June, but the further you moved through the year groups the more exams and test seemed to appear until there was hardly a month went by that some form of revision wasn't necessary. Occasionally a few of the more inconsiderate teachers would spring a surprise test on the class with no prior warning and therefore no chance to revise so at least if you did poorly in one of these you could always claim that you never had the chance to properly prepare but there were no such excuses for the Christmas and summer exams though sometimes there were genuine reasons for poor performance. I remember around about second year having to withstand a torrent of abuse from a teacher, not all of which was verbal, because my Biology score was less than impressive though it never seemed to enter his head that, along with another student who had recorded an equally unmemorable result, we were the only two pupils who had completed the first term without a text book, mainly due to his miscalculations when ordering, so revision was virtually impossible. But you don't really say that when you're twelve!

I'm sure you had you own method of revising for exams and I guess it depended on the subject, just how much you could prepare. And there was always an abundance of those little revision cards in clear plastic envelopes and also larger booklets that covered the main points. Sometimes I seemed to learn more from the published revision material than I had done all year in school and it was always a bit disconcerting that some teachers were recommending such booklets and cards, the closer we got to external exams that just happened to reflect a little more on the success or otherwise of their teaching. Yet no matter how much revising was done and how well prepared you thought you were, the examiner was always able to just pinpoint those areas of which you were less certain and, just occasionally, ask a question on a topic you hadn't covered at all. It's a strange phenomenon but we usually don't spend as amuch time on those parts of the syllabus that we think we know well, only to find that some of the most important detail deserts us in our moment of greatest need!

At school, in earlier years, mum was always around to help me brush up on my knowledge and understanding but as I moved through secondary school, she knew she could be of less help when I began to study things that were even new to her, but I still managed to do a lot of the revising with the television or the record player on in the background. By the time summer exams arrived, the sun was splitting the trees and the hot spell usually lasted until just after the last exam, so I often revised outside the back door, reclined on an armchair that I had dragged out for the occasion, with a cup of tea not too far away from my right arm. Later on, at university, I found myself, along with hundreds of other students, passing the revision hours in one of the city's parks, stretched out in the afternoon sun, with thoughts of revision not always uppermost on my list of things to do. Still, how quickly those days pass and I always have sympathy for the hordes of students who are spending their Christmas holidays getting ready for exams in the next few weeks and who, like I did once, wondering when it will all end. The answer of course is 'quicker than you can ever imagine' but it's hard to see the light when you're in the middle of the tunnel.

The one things about all forms of revision, whether you decide to use commercially available books, programs or cards or just make your own notes, is that they all usually strip down everything you have learned to just the basic facts that you need to know to get you through.

The Bible has sixty six books, full of all sorts of facts, figures, festivals, fall outs and family trees and while it is good to have read it all, it's more important that we know the basic facts especially about the future. So essentially here is what I think we need to revise.

God created everything, including man, who was made to worship the Creator, but who unfortunately sinned right at the start and became separated from his maker. But God still loved his human creation and planned a way back for man so that he could again live with Him. That involved coming to the earth as a human baby, experiencing all the emotions and turmoils of life without ever sinning even once and ultimately dying for the sins He didn't commit. But by rising from the dead He defeated the one thing that all of us must face and even though our bodies eventually give up, if we believe in Him, our souls never die but go to live with Him for ever, in Heaven. That's the future but it doesn't happen if you haven't got your preparation right so I guess it's time to revise and make sure you're ready to pass His test.

R is for RELATIVE

My granny and grandad lived in a huge house on the east side of Belfast. It was called Park Avenue and was in fact two houses joined together. Their neighbour, a Mr. Ruddell, lived alone and I never saw him face to face during my visits though occasionally I would catch a glimpse of a figure in an overcoat and hat, walking around his garden. I don't know what happened to his part of the house when he died but it was never occupied again. My grandparents' house had a very large garden with lots of little concrete paths meandering through the lawns and flower beds. There was a driveway from the front gates of about fifty yards , covered in tiny pebbles and leading to two sets of steps that ended at an ornate front porch. Inside was lots of old furniture that my grandad had picked cheaply at auctions and , though I was young when they lived there, all the rooms seemed to be large. To the right of the front door and halfway down the hall was a wide staircase the wound its way up to the second storey and had the smoothest banister that I have ever had the pleasure of sliding down. To the back of the house was a smaller, narrower staircase, that, I presume, was used by servants in a previous life of the house. I often stayed in the house during the summer with mum and my sister and spent hours on a little push scooter whizzing though the little paths, under the ornamental arches and down the many sets of concrete steps or sometimes taking out one of the hockey sticks belonging to my uncle and pushing a ball about on the lawn. But the main memories of the house was always Boxing Day for all the relatives were summoned to attend a massive feast and everyone duly obliged.

Granny and Grandad were never rich, the house having been bought at a time when property was inexpensive but on Boxing Day my granny would be up from dawn, preparing the turkeys and all the trimmings in readiness to welcome all her children, their wives and her grandchildren. Grandad would have been getting the fires lit and doing the other bits and pieces around the house and by mid morning everything was in order and the clan would start to arrive. They had nine children, although the eldest now lived in Canada and in the early years of the get-togethers, the two youngest boys still lived at home, while the majority were still in the city or close to it. We lived furthest from the city and it usually took a good hour to get there since the M1 only stretched as far as Lisburn but this was compensated for by the fact that generally the roads were much less busy than they are now. Still we were almost always one of the first to arrive as mum liked to be there in time to help her mother with the preparation. By the time everyone had arrived, there were twenty four adults and children and we all ate in a big dining room just off the kitchen and then almost always the men watched the King George VI and Queen Elizabeth horse race on Grandstand immediately afterwards.

This same routine continued for years, even after my grandparents sold the big house and moved to a much smaller residence just a few streets away but it was always a special event, seeing all the relatives, many of whom we had not spent time with since the previous Christmas and by the time everyone was married and all the children had been born the number in the family circle had risen to the mid thirties. At times it was bedlam in the smaller house and grandad would often slope off to a a quiet room for a while just to get a few minutes of solitude while some of us older kids might go to a hockey, football or rugby game with our uncles and dads. However as the years passed granny just became less able to shoulder the burden and eventually all the families persuaded her that they would bring the food and organise the day though she still liked to be in charge if only there to direct operations that were happening anyway. So it continued until she passed away and I will always have fond memories of those Boxing Days, playing with all the other children, spending time with my uncles, aunts and grandparents, leaving a smoky city in the evening and counting the Christmas trees all the way home.

ON Christmas Eve this year, we shared Communion as part of my other family, those who believe in Jesus as their Saviour. It was a special time, to meet with people from all walks of life and to know that we all have the one Father whom we worship. Like my earthly family, that too is a blood relationship, created by the blood which Jesus shed for my sins when HE died on the cross. Yet while our earthly families disappear and we are only left with the memories of great family reunions on such days as today, we as a family of believers can meet together at any time and remember not only God's love for us, through His Son's death but also the promise He has made about our reunion with Him in Heaven. Paul tells us in his letter to the Hebrews 'Both the one who makes men holy and those who are made holy are of the same family. So Jesus is not ashamed to call them brothers.' Jesus Himself said 'And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.' Now that's one family gathering I don't want to miss.

R is for REDEEM

It's Christmas Day once again and by now you probably have opened all the gifts that you received from relatives and friends. I have still to open mine but already I know that in among all the soft and hard shapes lying at the foot of the Christmas tree are one or two envelopes. I know because we put them there for the two lads. They contain vouchers of various sorts that can be redeemed at some of the stores in town and it allows them to get what they really want for Christmas. It takes more thought than you can imagine for you need to know the type of stores that twenty year olds like to but from but it's certainly more straight forward than running around toy shops and the like, which we used to do when they were small, even though that was great fun in itself. I suppose if it's not vouchers nowadays, then we probably do most of our festive shopping wither online or at Argos!

I've managed to get a couple of vouchers myself this year from one or two children in my class. They are always so kind at Christmas and even though they have to work hard all year they're all full of goodwill at this festive season. I know exactly which two shops I'll be visiting to redeem the vouchers and it will be a bit like having Christmas all over again, going into a shop and getting something for free that someone else has paid for. But already this past week, we've been using vouchers that the big stores send periodically or using their store cards to amass points that can be used against purchases at a later date. And you're probably in the same position too.

It's not a new craze either. I remember growing up in a world of Green Shield stamps, though we didn't collect them in any quantity ourselves. It was originally an American idea but caught on quickly over here and most people had some of the stamps lying in a pocket or on a shelf at home. It was a very simple but effective scheme. Many of the smaller retailers in towns and also petrol stations gave stamps to customers when they made a purchase. These could then be stuck into books and when enough were collected, could be redeemed for a gift in the Green Shield catalogue. It was a very successful venture for years but began to suffer because of one or two things. First, the retailer had to buy the stamps from the Green Shield company and their only perk in the system was customer loyalty because people tended to shop where they could get the stamps. However, to cover their costs, the retailers had to increase prices on the shop floor and soon customers began to realise this and the stamps became less attractive than cheaper purchases. Secondly, you received one stamp for every old 6d you spent. That was the same as two stamps for a modern 5p and to fill one book you needed to collect you needed 1,280 stamps, the equivalent of spending about £32. IN the gift catalogue around the mid-sixties, a colour television required you to redeem 88 books so that meant it had cost you almost £3,000, while a motor boat would have been worth the same amount of money as a small house. So most people could only dream of such luxuries and usually settled for simpler gifts such as a set of mugs or glasses or a nice picture that could be gained by redeeming just one book. Still, even at £32 it was an expensive way to drink your tea! However, what really made Green Shield a thriving business was the fact that many people just couldn't be bothered sticking the stamps into the books and so even though they had accumulated hundreds of them, never redeemed them against for the gifts that were on offer. Eventually, Green Shield was rebranded Argos and the stamps had all but disappeared by the late seventies.

The word 'redeem' not only means to exchange but also to recover or buy back. At Christmas we often sing the carol 'Once in Royal David's City'. You might even come across it today in a service. I love the last verse that say, ' And our eyes at last shall see Him,Through His own redeeming love;For that Child so dear and gentle,Is our Lord in heaven above.' Jesus is indeed our redeemer. He didn't come to earth to lie in a manger, he came to die on a cross to redeem us or in plain English to buy us back for God. Paul in writing to Titus, reminded him that Jesus 'gave himself for us to redeem us from all wickedness and to purify for himself a people that are his very own.' The trouble is that gift is waiting for every single person but so many never redeem it for themselves. It's the greatest gift of all, Jesus has paid for it with his blood and yet at this, another Christmas, He is still left waiting to give it to you. This Christmas Day, may there be only one Redeemer on your mind as you not only celebrate his birth but also remember his sacrifice and claim the gift of eternal life. Happy Christmas.

R is for READ

I have a confession to make, though it's hardly earth-shattering. This is not my confession but I'm on my way to making it before I finish. When I was at school, my favourite subject was probably English, though that was probably because it was my best subject at the time. I wasn't a keen reader at all, in fact I found some of the stuff we had to read at school positively boring and uninteresting. Anyway, I found the grammar and spelling end fairly straight forward but when it came to some of the literature we had thrown at us, I can't say I found it very stimulating. I'm sure if you're reading this you can probably identify with your own experience. Anyway, we used to study poems, which I always found quite interesting, but could never understand how one person's interpretation of another's writing had to be the only correct one. Often I felt that the teacher and indeed the commentators used to read into things in poems that probably the author had never intended but you were always too afraid too offer such an opinion because corporal punishment was still in existence! Anyway, like everyone else I read Wordsworth, Keats, Shelley, Yeats and all the other 'greats' and also studied Shakespeare, where the language was even more difficult to understand than the Bible. And I coped with it all. But when it came to the novels, well too many were just a complete turnoff and I put up with the daily drudgery of reading chapters that provided no interest. By the time I had reached fifth year and the dreaded O levels, I was totally into factual books and had little time for any form of fiction which, unfortunately, happened to form a sizeable chunk of my course. One book in particular had to be read because it was certain to be part of the exam. It was a book titled 'Bitter Lemons' by Lawrence Durrell and all about the conflict between the Turkish and Greek communities on the island of Cyprus, or so I'm reliably informed. Maybe you're getting the drift already. I did make a start, but for a fifteen year old boy, it didn't really make the sort of inspirational bedtime reading that I had hoped for and long before the end of the first chapter I had given up all hope. And here's the confession. I knew I had to read it for my exam but I never got round to it, except for one chapter in the middle of the book that the teacher had suggested might be a strong possibility for a question. And that's exactly what happened. You may think I was lucky or even downright stupid, you might even think it was a risk too far but I went into that exam having only read the one chapter and came out having only needed to. I passed the exam but I always felt that I short changed my teacher and the examiner. So some day I plan to read the whole book just to see what it was all about, for I have great respect for its author.

I suppose that's the beauty of books. Everyone is drawn to a different style of writing and there is enough variety out there for all to enjoy, even though two people's opinions about the same book may be vastly different. Over the past ten years I've bought a lot of novels for my pupils and often, there is no one more discerning than a child, for if they don't like a book, they will tell you. A few years ago an inspector recommended a book he felt I simply must get for my class, saying how wonderfully it was written, how it had become a classic and what a brilliant story it was form start to finish, just the sort of book that was perfect for developing their love of reading. So I bought a set of six for the room but soon discovered that an adult's view of a good read and that of a child are two completely different entities and for the past few years, the set has been gathering dust in my reading cupboard. Even when I try to encourage my best readers to try it, within a couple of days, the copy is back on my desk with a plea to try something else.

Today, I'm still not a fiction reader, though I dabble occasionally, preferring to mull over an autobiography or a book full of facts. I think that's why I find the Bible so appealing for it's full of history, packed with autobiographies and real life experiences and the poetry is outstanding. But the greatest thing about it is that it was inspired by the greatest author ever, the Author of Life itself and within its pages we are constantly directed towards His love for us and the provision He has made for us to be with Him. Bu God not only writes what He wants us to read , He also reads what He writes. In Revelation 20v15 I am reminded that 'If anyone's name was not found written in the book of life, he was thrown into the lake of fire.' Will God read your name there. Remember He deals in fact not fiction!

R is for RADIO

We had two radios in the house when I was growing up though we tended to call each one a wireless. The first was a really old one that had been around for longer than I can remember. It was portable in the sense that it could be moved but not in the sense that you could carry it if you were going for a walk. It was about the height of a medium sized cereal box but twice the depth and its wooden casing was greenish blue with hints of a creamy-yellow colour on the speaker grille. All the knobs were on top as was the tuning scale but they basically amounted to an on/off switch that doubled as a volume control, a selector for medium or long wave and a tuning knob. You knew when you had reached the correct station because a little vertical red line on the tuner settled over the station that you wanted. The inside of the 'wireless' could be reached by removing the whole back cover and this revealed a series of large valves in the top half and underneath a huge battery, cuboid in shape and about the size of four pounds of butter laid side by side. It was usually tuned into Radio Ulster or whatever it was called in those days so that our parents could hear the news as many times as possible in day and the only other place the tuner knew on the scale was RTE radio which dad used every evening at around half past six to listen to the cattle prices from different markets around Ireland. Every morning when you would waken up, you could hear the muffled voice of a radio presenter downstairs, reading the news or informing us what sort of weather to expect so you knew it must be nearly time to get up. The other radio was powered by electricity and sat on the trolley underneath the television. It was much more ornate and was completely dark brown in colour with a tuning scale that lit up and had three or four different wavelengths and lovely large round tuning and volume knobs. It was used more and more as the original wireless began to give up the ghost.

But it was on that first radio that I discovered music and also that there were other radio stations out there apart from the two that commonly filled my ears. Somewhere, somehow, I found Radio Caroline and then Radio Luxembourg and forever my life was changed. Now I could hear songs and music that the other, more formal channels never aired and also tune into presenters who weren't afraid to have a bit of fun. On many nights I would be stuck beside the old radio with the reel tape recorder and microphone, recording the top twenty and trying to compete with the normal, everyday noise on the house.

Sometime after that early period I had saved up enough pennies to buy my own radio. I t was a simple affair about as big as a post card and about an inch and a half deep, with two big round controls on the front, a silver grille and a plastic blue casing. For the first time I was introduced to the joys of private listening since it came with a small, cream coloured earphone and some time later I found a way to strap it to the handlebars of my bicycle and had music on the move. But my pride and joy was another radio that looked just so sleek. It was much wider but not as deep and only as tall as a CD case and while most of the casing was a dark blue-green, the top third was silver and had four or five little vertical silver buttons on one side, in a row that switched it on and off and selected different channels. It also came with its own little earpiece but because it was a much more rigid, fragile structure and indeed more valuable it never made it onto my bicycle. Since those early days, I have bought a whole selection of radios, some with presets, others with vertical, horizontal or rotary tuning dials, some that needed electricity, a few that fitted into a coat pocket and even now, with the advent of DAB radio, I suppose I have considered adding to my collection yet again. These days, I find myself listening more and more to the very stations that I used to avoid and often tune into the latest news bulletins while generally not listening to as much music as I once did, though Radio 5 live and Talk Sport are always going to feature heavily on my agenda at any listening.

Two major memories of radio listening always live with me. The first was the first broadcast of Downtown radio. For over a week, I had been feeding all the cattle with hay in the early morning because dad had been unwell. I followed his example of putting three or four bales of hay in the boot of his car and driving to the different fields, while listening to the radio. I knew that the beginning of the new station was imminent because every morning, a series of jingles on the frequency told me the start date was getting closer . Then one morning at about six or seven o'clock, the station was born and I felt privileged to be there, all alone, listening to the new birth as it happened. The second event was less pleasant but no less memorable for I was tuned in to Radio One at the exact moment when a tearful Stuart Henry announced that 'The King is dead'. wasn't an avid Elvis fan, yet the impact of his passing didn't leave me unmoved and its significance never left me.

I wasn't at either the birth or the death of Jesus and I often wonder how the radio would have reported each. There is no doubt that through different generations, the people had been told that the birth was imminent but it was a much quieter affair than expected with the only invited guests being a bunch of shepherds and possibly a few animals. In about the same length of time that Downtown Radio has been in existence, Jesus made such an impact on people that there were those who decided he must die. I wonder did they ever think that event had also been told through different generations and that they were directly involved in bringing the prophetic words of others to reality. 'The King of the Jews' was above His head and there would have been many who shed tears on the day the King died but many others who were glad to see the end. Yet the end was in fact a new beginning and how privileged we are today to not only have the reported historical facts of His birth and death but also the knowledge that He rose again and as the name Immanuel suggests, He is still with us. As Isaiah says 'He was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.' Time to tune in and listen!

R is for RELIGIOUS

They have always had a saying around our parts for someone who becomes a Christian. ' Your man's got good livin' they'll say and immediately we all know what they mean. It's a strange kind of phrase to use and I don't know why some people can't just say, 'he's become a Christian' or 'he's got saved' or 'he's converted'. It's as if Christian, converted and saved are words they're afraid to use or just can't bring themselves to utter. Maybe it pricks the conscience too much towards self-examination and maybe there are those who are afraid of what they might find. Yet the phrase 'good livin' is almost always used with respect towards the subject of their statement in an almost 'leave him alone' sort of attitude, but two things always cross my mind when I hear it said. First, by using it, are they suggesting that they consider themselves to be 'bad livin'? For you can't be both. Yet I know of many who would be offended to be placed in the latter category. But secondly and more worryingly, 'good livin' doesn't necessarily make them have to admit that God is central in the whole change that has taken place. It's almost as if someone just came to their senses and decided to change including church in turning over a new leaf. Hey, but let's be honest, anyone who uses the phrase 'good livin' knows exactly what has happened. So what to such people consider to be 'good livin' There's no doubt that they see a religious element in the whole change, but usually the most obvious sign is a vastly different lifestyle, with certain vices and habits discarded and a distancing from the former friendship group and the places they used to frequent. Still, I get the feeling that they can't use the words religious and enjoyment in the same sentence when describing a 'good livin' person and maybe that's where their problem lies.

Jesus lived in time when religion played a part in the lives of many and no part at all for others, so essentially things haven't changed. Nor has the view of religion as some sort of stern, rule ridden regime totally divorced from the every day realities of life. That's what Jesus was up against all the time, lives ruled by rules and a series of 'Thou shalt nots' but rarely anything positive. And the priests and religious leaders just couldn't reconcile their existence with that of a man whose only principle for living was to ' Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind' and, 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' Where were all the rules? Where was the sad face? How could you enjoy something that was a daily chore? And yet that was exactly what Jesus didn't want it to become, for you see, it wasn't a religion based on sacrifices, rituals and creeds. In fact it wasn't a religion at all, it was simply a new way to live that impacted on every minute of our existence, on our decisions and, eventually, on our future. That's why He said 'I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.' Now that sounds pretty inviting to me and not a place for long faces.

I wouldn't call myself religious, 'good livin' or even Protestant, though by others' definitions I am all three. I prefer to call myself a Christian and I don't have any problem with that at all. And because I believe that Jesus died and rose again and through the shedding of His blood He became the only sacrifice I would ever need for my sins, I know with absolute assurance that I am saved. He has done away with all the rules, rituals and sacrifices. All He wants is my obedience in return for the price He paid. The world is full of gods, religions and promises but only one God ever died for me and kept the promise that He made in the Garden. I will always respect those who have chosen a different religious path to mine, those whose thoughts are drawn to other forms of worship and those whose moral standards probably far outweigh my own and who do not prescribe to any form of deity. They have their rights but so have I and if I'm described as 'good livin' or 'religious' , I can live with that for, in truth, it is a good life to know that God, the Creator and Sustainer of all life is at the centre of everything I do. Remember, you can love God and you neighbour without being religious but you can be religious without loving anyone!

R is for RENT

It was ten storeys high but everyone had their own story. In my three years imprisoned within its walls, I had lived on three different floors but had never reached either the top or the bottom. There was only one entry door that opened onto a communal living room with arm chairs that had obviously been bought in bulk and not the sort that you would entertain in your own house. The warden lived on this floor and there was a little counter with a bell where you could contact him if necessary and just across the way, two public telephones that, in the evenings, were constantly in use, since the mobile was still some years away from making its appearance. The only other areas of interest on the ground floor were the lifts doors that almost everyone used, the door leading to the stairs that only the energetic or those living on the lower floors ventured through and a little dark corridor that led to a television room capable of accommodating about twelve of the one hundred and fifty or so inmates. Each level above was more or less self contained and looked identical. There was a central kitchen area that looked out over a small lake and on the higher floors, offered panoramic views over part of the city but it was never busy and more likely to be only used regularly by students who lived there on a more semi-permanent basis that those of us who disappeared at the weekend. Each room inside also followed a similar pattern, with a bed, chair and desk all acquired from the same supplier as the living room chairs and a little wash corner that housed a basin and a few shelves. But this was no en-suite for toilet, bath and shower facilities were communal, though even you never really got to know your neighbours. It was basic, but for three years of university life it was adequate so I paid the rent and just got on with it.

By fourth year, we were all ready for a change and despite the view of Belfast from our kitchen window we opted for a view of a side street filled with parked cars and our first attempt at running a house. IN two years, I live in two different rooms, first in a small room on the middle storey that looked out over a small and cramped back yard, hardly the most stimulating scene in the city. We tried to live as a family, cooking for each other and sharing a living room downstairs and while the system worked for the year, we were hardly all blood relatives and generally lived single and separate lives within the family unit. But I think we all learned to cook there and also gained some valuable experience in the less closeted environment of a terrace house. In my last year, when most of the house mates had changed, I acquired the room on the top floor. It was the biggest room and provided a panoramic view of about thirty metres of street and a bank training centre directly opposite but it wasn't a scene to die for. The room itself had a bed, a table that became my desk and a wardrobe that doubled as a clothes hanger and a dump for the discarded daily papers I bought. On the thin mantle piece, was perched my record player that would have sat uncomfortably beside any average hi-fi system but it made a sound and though it probably ruined most of the vinyls that were unfortunate enough to grace its turntable, it made a sound and that was enough to appease a student now trying to fund a car and pay the rent. However, being at the top is not all sunshine and the room always had a smoky feel to it, no doubt caused by the fumes that would drift in from neighbouring houses in an area that was still not smokeless. I lived a more solitary existence in that room, and probably spent as much time at away from it as in it so I never really made it home at all, to the extent that my only bed covering for most of the year was inside a sleeping bag. But I still paid the rent and got on with it.

For three summers I returned home and lived a rent free existence before we got married and then moved into a corner house that we rented for a further period of three years. The rent was ridiculously cheap and though the house had its problems, it was a lovely old building and as tenants and newly weds, we were happy to live there until something more permanent appeared. In winter it was a cold house, but not cold enough to ward off frequent small visitors with long tails and we essentially lived in about three or four rooms, again on three storeys. At the front there was a small but adequate mature garden, with several trees and at the rear, a sizeable yard with outbuildings that the owner rented out to other neighbours, so we were never alone. However, as plans for our own house became more than just drawings on paper, we found ourselves spending less and less time in the rented accommodation and most of our waking hours, painting, decorating and overseeing the new building. I wasn't sorry to leave the corner house but we had many happy memories in our three or four rooms and we always paid the rent, though we were always looking forward to our new home.

And we are still looking forward to our new home, the one that Jesus has gone to get ready, for he left his disciples with this promise,'In my Father's house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you. I am going there to prepare a place for you.' But we have to be ready for the move and have made our own preparations for when he returns to take us there. That means trusting in the One who said He will return. In all the place I have lived, I have never wanted to move back to the previous place, because I know that where I am, it is better than before. And that's the way I still think, knowing that what Jesus has prepared for me is far better than anything I have here. In the week that we remember Him making His temporary home on earth, let's make plans for a more permanent dwelling where we never have to pay to stay for ever.

R is for RUTH

Don't you just adore a good love story. Something that puts 'Gone with the Wind' well into second place. A real tear jerker. One of those 'happy ever after' tales that just leaves you with that good feeling in the pit of your stomach and a smile on your face. Ruth's story is just like that. I think it's my favourite story in the whole of the Bible, so much so in fact, that a few years ago we made a video about it in school with some of the children and when we watched it the other day, apart from the fact that we all look older now, we were pleasantly surprised with our efforts. But more than that, I think we began to remember just how more it is than just an extraordinary love story. So, first, for all of you who have forgotten or never knew, here's a quick review.

Elimelech, Naomi and their two sons, Mahlon and Kilion, leave Bethlehem and go to live in Moab, because of a famine. Nothing too strange there. While they are there, dad dies and leaves Naomi a widow but her two sons marry a couple of girls from Moab, called Ruth and Orpah and they almost live happily ever after, except that both of the boys die, leaving their mum in a strange country with two daughters in law whom she hardly knows and a culture and religion very different to the one she left in Bethlehem. Like any sensible person, the distraught Naomi decided to go back home, since she has no longer any reason to stay there and after trying to persuade her relatives by marriage to stay in their own country, get married again and get on with their lives, she realises that Ruth is determined to accompany her mother in law back to Bethlehem and live with her there.

Obviously they need money to live and it just happens that they arrive back at harvest time and Ruth goes to work in the fields. It just seems too much of a coincidence but the field she ends up working in belongs to a guy called Boaz who just happens to be a relative of Elimelech, her father in law. Anyway, to cut a long story short, he falls in love with her, makes sure she gets plenty of food and drink and generally takes a real interest in her well being. Naomi realises what's happening and before Ruth has time to draw breath, has everything set up for the romance to blossom even further. It's almost a bit like Valentine's Day because in effect, Ruth just about asks Boaz if she can be his wife. He's obviously keen but because of some ancient rules, he can only marry her if he is the closest relative, which, unfortunately, he isn't! Anyway he gets around that problem by talking to the relative and in a strange custom a sandal is exchanged in much the same way as we would shake hands on a deal nowadays.

Some time after that, Boaz and Ruth marry, they have a son whom they call Obed and they all live happily ever after. But here's the catch. It's not a story at all, it's not even a fictional account of some true life events. It is in fact true. When I was young I often wondered why the Bible needed to have such a lovely story apart from the obvious pleasure it brought to its readers. Then I began to delve more deeply, knowing like everything else, it was there for a reason. The answer comes in the family tree, for Ruth's son, Obed, was the grandfather of David,the second King of Israel and the great Psalm writer and of course, Jesus, in human terms, is a direct descendant of that great King and born in the very town where Ruth and Boaz lived so many years before. The angel tells it all to the young Mary when he says 'The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob for ever; his kingdom will never end.' And of course it never will for the God who had his hand on uniting a rich man from Bethlehem with a young widow from Moab, wasn't just thinking about a King who would rule Israel for a few years but of a King who would rule the world for ever and restore the broken relationship with his ultimate creation. And that is the ultimate love story!

R is for RECORDER

I bought it from a guy who only live about nine miles away from me but whom I never knew until we went to university together. Even then he was really only an acquaintance but happened to be an acquaintance with something that I liked. I should say that covet is probably the wrong word to use here but the thought had crossed my mind that it mightn't be so far off the mark. He was into hi-fi in a big way. I hadn't even knocked the door. But someone told me that he might have a tape recorder for sale. Not just an ordinary tape recorder but a big upright one that held tow large reels and was the closest thing to having a recording studio that existed. He used it for making recordings of his albums so as not to have to play the vinyl discs and preserve their quality while listening in perfect stereo to the big recorder. But he just didn't see the potential in the machine, probably because he wasn't interested in playing music in an instrument sort of way. I had researched for months how to be able to record more than one instrument playing a piece of music and so sound like a one man band and all roads had only led me to one affordable solution, the Akai 4000 and suddenly it lay directly in my path, though someone else was still holding it! It didn't take much persuasion to make a student part with a peripheral possession for about £100 and I didn't need any time to make a decision either.

It was a great buy, though not the Rolls Royce of recorders at the time, it lay somewhere neatly below a Teac reel recorder and far above the old Marconi recorder that lay underneath the record player in our good room. Still, it was beast and not portable in an ipod sort of way, being about the size of the average computer tower but the weight of an a 32 inch television. However, for years it did the job and the beauty of it was that even though it recorded on two tracks, you could either record them separately and make a beautiful stereo picture or you could record on just one track and 'bounce' it to the other channel while adding a second instrument. For months that was how I spent much of my spare time, experimenting with different instruments and voices and building up the whole thing until I sounded like a full band. However there were drawbacks, the main one being that every time a track was bounced, the quality of the new track was not as good but the amount of tape hiss increased. By the time I had completed six or seven bounces, the track and the hiss were in direct competition for my attention and there certainly wasn't any clarity in the recording. But I kept them and in retrospect I now see just what an important learning experience the whole thing became and while the sound quality was never anything other than mediocre, the music quality began to improve the more I played and even now some of those old recordings hold a special place in my heart.

Richard was an expert in recording and on several Sunday afternoons he and I would meet up in our living room and attempt to make our own particular version of a song. We were always full of good intentions but when we sat down to it, we could never think what song to record so we ended up with such classics as 'I'll fly away' and the old Kristofferson hit 'Help me'. The quality was so much better for two reasons. First, Richard knew what he was doing and secondly we just played live and never bounced any tracks. But I learnt form such a master and got better. HE went on to work for the BBC and though illness claimed his life very early, I was always thankful that he had crossed my path and showed me the way.

You know I don't consider myself anything special, especially when I look at the great men of faith in Bible times and even in our modern day. I don't even consider myself special in my achievements compared to those who have become successful entrepreneurs, politicians or enterprising businessmen. I'm not the Rolls Royce of human beings in any field but thankfully in God's eyes, I am every bit as special as any other human being. What a lovely thought to cherish. So I look at what He has given me and I try to utilise that as best I can and in the way I think He would want me to do so. And I'm thankful that even amidst the hiss of everything else that surrounds my life, He can still hear and see me loud and clear and is pleased with what He sees. I'm thankful too that he has directed many individuals along my way so that I can learn from them and be more successful for Him and I'm thankful more than anything that I took that step, even when I knew so little and asked Him to be my Saviour.

I never use the Akai reel recorder any more. I've moved on to other devices as my knowledge and experience have increased and as man's technology has improved but that grounding has never left me. At this Christmas time, as we hear so much negativity about the offence that the Nativity might cause to others, never forget those words from Ecclesiastes, 'Remember your Creator in the days of your youth, before the days of trouble come and the years approach when you will say, I find no pleasure in them.' Remember it's not the life that you have but what you do with it!

R is for RAWHIDE

It was the first time I had seen Clint Eastwood, but I hadn't a clue who he was. I only knew him as Rowdy Yates. HE was a sort of assistant to Gil Favor who was the boss of what seemed like a continuous cattle drive across America that never started or ended anywhere. Along the way, they encountered all sorts of problems, some of their own making but by the time the hour was up, everything was solved and the cowboys were back up on their horses and responding to Mr Favor's catchphrase 'Move 'em up and head 'em out!' By the end of 1966 they had all headed out after over 200 black and white episodes, most of which I had probably seen but none of which I can remember. Rowdy would soon become the man with no name for quite a few dollars more and Gil alias Eric Fleming would drown during other filming.

It wasn't the only western type programme that the BBC managed to acquire from across the big pond and I was an avid watcher of them all. Wagon Train overlapped Rawhide for years, though it ran to slightly more episodes. The plot was similar, except instead of driving cattle across America, the drove lots of covered wagons. Its hero was Major Seth Adams played by Ward Bond who died halfway through the fourth series but I always remember Coop because the actor who played him had also been a star of Laramie and spoke with the most beautiful American drawl that you can imagine. He played a drifter called Jess Harper and the show lasted for only about four years.

However, long before I even got hooked on that, I'd been glued to the old black and white set, watching Roy Rodgers and Trigger and even though there was no colour, I always imagined the horse as golden though truthfully I never looked forward to Roy's little sing song at the end. It just made the whole thing a bit unreal, 'happy trails' and all that. Around that time, like most kids my age, I was in awe of the masked man, his Indian friend and their two horses, Silver and Scout. 'Who is that masked man?' people would ask and though I hadn't a clue myself, I never thought about his past, only his present and the good that he was doing. In later years I discovered that the Lone Ranger's mask had been made from the vest of his murdered brother and but for the appearance of his childhood friend Tonto, he would also have been killed in the ambush. It was a truly wonderful series not least for the 'Hi Ho Silver and away' at the end of every episode but also the William Tell overture that most people of our day recognised as the Lone Ranger them tune rather than a classical masterpiece.

There were other great western shows to occupy our afternoons and evenings, including Gunsmoke, Bonanza, the Virginian, Champion the Wonder Horse, The Big Valley, The High Chaparral (which was shown on Sunday and we couldn't watch) and Maverick but for some reason it's Rawhide that takes me back. Maybe that's because, somewhere up in my attic I still have an old Rawhide annual and the black and white pencil sketches of Gil and Rowdy are etched in my brain for evermore of a time when life was more straight forward and films just told a good story with a happy ending.

I guess life is generally just a good story too though some parts are less good and others are downright terrible, but for the outsider looking in, it makes pretty interesting viewing, though the ending is not always what we expect. I'm drawn back to the Lone Ranger whose past I knew nothing about and was therefore of no importance to me because he was more concerned in rooting out all kinds of evil. I think it gives us some insight into the mind of our God who, when we come to Him and ask forgiveness for our past, forgets it for ever, because it is no longer important to Him. The prophet Jeremiah talks of God's new covenant with his people when he say 'For I will forgive their wickedness and will remember their sins no more.' So you see, no matter what sort of a story you are writing about your own life, if you find faith in God, there can be a happy ending. Happy Trails!

R is for ROAD

It was only a short journey of about a quarter of a mile, part of it on the main road between Loughgall and Moy and the rest along the narrower stretch that led up a steep hill towards home. This latter part of tarmac was only wide enough for one vehicle to travel along and was bordered on one side by our orchard and on the other by a field that we called 'the wee orchard' but over a period of years and mostly before I was born, the apple trees had either died or been uprooted and now only a few remained, along with one or two pear trees and a row of damson trees near the bottom hedge. These plum trees were very delicate in nature, their branches unlikely to support a human, without snapping, but strangely when a ladder was placed across several of them, their combined strength allowed dad, on many occasions, to climb the ladder and pull the damsons. There was, however, more than one occasion that he was probably too confident and ended up in the adjacent hedge among the briars. When I was very young, the old hedge bordering the road had a stone wall base and any gaps in the hedge above it had been fortified by the faithful barbed wire that neither man nor beast would attempt to pass through. However, at some satge the swhole thing was removed and replaced by a wooden fence, covered on the lower end by strong netting wire and above with a couple of strands of the barbed variety.

We often 'herded' cattle on this stretch of road, early in the morning and dad would then walk through the gathering of animals, separating those that were ready for market from those that would survive a little longer in the fields . It only took three of us to do the job, one at the top of the hill, one at the bottom and dad in the middle. My own house wasn't built then so there were very few distractions or escape routes for the animals who quite happily grazed on the grass verge at the roadside until the lorry came to take them away.

The same road was also the direct route home from the hay field when we brought the bales to the hay shed. Dad had an old grey Ferguson tractor at the time, that was cabless and used petrol instead of diesel for its nourishment. It used to start by turning on the key and then manoeuvring the gear lever but in recent times that method no longer operated and it was case of either suing the starting handle or leaving it on a hill and starting it on a push and a run. It didn't pull any really heavy loads and since our trailer was already a hefty beast, we never really brought more than about forty bales in any load, back to the farmyard. The hill itself was a major obstacle and even though dad built up some good speed as we rounded the corner off the main road and started our ascent, you could hear the engine slowly die away about one third of the way up the incline and you just knew he would have to change gear. The gearbox had no synchromesh so it was usually a grinding session before we began stuttering forward towards the summit. Sister and I almost always rode on top of the hay load. The view was so much better and it probably was safer than clinging precariously on to the back or sides of a cabless tractor. Except not on this occasion. We had just reached that critical moment on the hill when the engine began to die and I could see dad getting ready to change gear. However as the grinding stopped and we began to move forwards, everything changed for the tipping mechanism on the trailer was suddenly jolted into action and our eyes were thrust skywards as the load beneath us began to quickly move up and backwards and we were forced in the same direction. It only took seconds but soon the whole load was lying strewn across the road and sister and I somewhere in the middle of it. Dad has never moved more quickly and almost instantly he was standing at the back of the trailer checking if we were OK. So many things could have happened in those few seconds, We could have landed on the tarmac, broken bones or worse, head first, any number of the forty or so bales could have landed on top of us or we could even have been catapulted into the hedge or the barbed wire but we landed unhurt, with the bales actually sliding off the trailer beneath us and cushioning our fall. Dad was a relieved man that day, but not as much as mum when she found out and for a while afterwards we were consigned to the mudguard of the tractor, which was probably not any safer but at least closer to the ground!

Have you ever felt God's hand upon you? Or maybe you didn't realise it was Him. It's easy when you're in the midst of a problem to forget that He knows what's happening and is still in control. Indeed, hindsight is a wonderful thing, when you emerge from the difficulties life throws at us and can look back and see His protective influence every step of the way. Now I know that not every problem works out to our satisfaction and sometimes we suffer scars that take so long, if ever, to heal but I think each of us can point to so many other times when we just know that a higher power has been at work. God has a plan for each of our lives and, as an old friend said to me once, we can't alter the length of our lives by one minute but He often protects and guides us through difficult moments along the way, like falling off a load of hay, being in an accident, suffering illness or just watching over us each day as we get on with living. In the Psalms I read 'You are my hiding place; you will protect me from trouble and surround me with songs of deliverance.' And not only does God protect me in everyday life but he promises to to be my strength against the fallen angel as Paul reminds the church at Thessalonica, 'But the Lord is faithful, and he will strengthen and protect you from the evil one.'

As we approach Christmas once again, what better reminder of God's presence in every step we take along the road than 'Immanuel, God with us'

R is for RAZOR

It was a very twisty road and though not the main thoroughfare, was a busy route at around 8:30 on any weekday morning, mainly because it was considered to be a short cut across country. I travelled the road for years in both directions but the morning journey was always the most frantic for that was the time when I chose to shave on many days. I can imagine your consternation at the thought of shaving foam, a bowl of water and a razor sitting on the passenger seat and yours truly attempting to remove facial hair with the odd glance in the rear view mirror and an occasional look at the road ahead, so it's only fair to come clean and admit that it just wasn't like that. To get a more accurate mental picture, takeaway the bowl and the foam and replace the blade razor with a battery powered one and you are pretty well spot-on with the situation. Now don't misunderstand me. I often shaved at home but the little pocket razor which I had since my student days always nestled in the driver's door compartment and on those occasions when I was rushed in the morning, it regularly saw the light of day and the side of my chin. However, increasingly I discovered that I could save much more time if I decided to forego the home shave and just remove the bristles on a quiet stretch of road along the way. And this quiet stretch was ideal, except it wasn't so quiet and had more twists than a Sherlock Holmes story. Anyway, if you had met me in the morning, you probably wouldn't have noticed anything strange, for I became adept at pausing every time I met a car, though I have to confess, over the years there were one or two very close shaves! The secret of course was to use the mirror as little as possible and simply go by the feel on the face and though this appeared to work reasonably well, it was still quite possible to leave some areas untouched. When the shave was finished, the second job was always to dispose of the shavings that had collected. This was a simple job in comparison as it only involved winding down the window and holding the battery razor into the wind. Then by a small switch it was possible to open the hinged top and all the remains were scattered across the countryside, or on occasions when the wind was strong, back into the car!

I've never been wet shaver but I have managed to cut myself once or twice with an electric razor so just imagine the damage I could do with a blade. Dad always had his shaving brush in the bathroom and I only really ever remember him using one razor that screwed apart to allow a blade to be set in between the two pieces. The blades came in a little yellow box of five, each individually wrapped in paper and all extremely sharp. It certainly wasn't a safety razor but he was an expert and rarely did I ever see a mark of blood on his face. He certainly took much more time over his shaving than I ever did and it showed in the closeness and completeness of a job well done. In the last couple of years of his life, he no longer had the strength not the steadiness to use his blade razor and resorted to a a rechargeable one that did an adequate job but never really to his satisfaction. In his last few months, when I had often had to shave him, I understood why because, though it appeared to be successful, closer inspection by touch and sight revealed that there was only a certain level of closeness it could reach and often some hairs were just too tough to remove by its rotating blades. I now see that both my sons have opted to follow the path of their grandfather rather than their dad and, in retrospect, it is probably a wise decision. Still, it doesn't matter what type of razor we choose for the next day we have the same problem and the same task to complete before presenting ourselves to the world.

Being a Christian is similarly a constant daily battle for Satan never chooses to go away and always looks for an opportune moment to attack. So it doesn't matter whether you have been walking the road for years or just a new believer starting out on the journey, we need to dedicate each day of our lives into the care of our Father in heaven, to protect us from all evil that might try to spring up unnoticed. That's why I find the Lord's Prayer, which sometimes we utter more out of repetition than thoughtfulness, so important because in it Jesus tells us to ask each day for our daily bread, for forgiveness of sins and for protection against temptation. Jesus tells us, ' If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.' God also reminds me, through the Psalmist 'Blessed is the man who listens to me, watching daily at my doors, waiting at my doorway.' As I renew my dependence on God today, I know that the closer I stay to Him, the less chance that there will be for anything undesirable to grow. But tomorrow is another day. Keep the blade sharp.

R is for RUGBY

They say it is a thug's game played by gentlemen, or is it the other way round? I can't remember, but I was about to find out. I'd just kicked the ball up the field and whether the flanker was annoyed that he hadn't managed to tackle me first or was just exhibiting normal behaviour, I'll never really know. For whatever reason, I found myself running towards where the ball landed with this less than charming member of the opposition parallel to my left ear. He seemed disinterested in where the ball was or indeed the score, but more concerned about expressing his anger using a wide vocabulary of expletives. I don't know if it was my indifference to his remarks or the smile which suggested that I had won this particular battle but as we parted company, he signalled his departure with a swinging arm to my face. Fortunately his aim was about as good as his tackling and I think in that moment I decided that sometimes rugby can be a thug's game played by thugs!

In truth, however, that was not the way I found the game to be at all and while most players make every legal effort to prevent the opposition winning and because of its physicality, tempers can become stretched beyond the elastic limit, when that final whistle goes, there lies a bond between rugby players from all walks of life that not only spills into the clubhouse but is never lost down the years. There are no barriers of colour, religion, class, political persuasion or wealth for all talk from the same handbook and speak a language that each understands. On the pitch, there is a togetherness and team ethic that any army general would be proud to see in his troops. We all live or die by our collective effort and can laugh about it in the clubhouse afterwards. At least that's how it has always been. But in recent years, things have begun to change and many would queue at the door to tell you that much of the fun has gone, replaced by a 'win at all costs' mentality and less camaraderie than once existed. What has caused this change? I've no doubt that money has played a large part and the dawn of the professional era has left less time to get to know the opposition socially as well as competitively. Even at schools and under age level the demands placed upon our young players has killed their original enjoyment of the game and modern tactics negate the opportunity for flair to be exhibited. All in the name of winning. It's a sad reflection on a game that I love but all is not lost for there are still those developing countries where the rugby gospel is being preached, who are not restricted by the unwritten rules that have so damaged the major nations and where rugby is still played with a smile. Don't be fooled into thinking that players from past ages didn't want to win for the desire was just as strong. I guess we just realised that while rugby was important it should never be allowed to dominate our every day existence.

I remember my first game for the school and though we lost 6-5 it was an experience I never forgot, playing against people I had never seen before and realising that they had as determined a will to win as we had. . In the following twenty five years I played hundreds of matches for school and club but most have gone from memory. How strange that my first game should still be logged in the mind after all these years and other, better days should have been wiped away.

I still love to watch the game, standing on the touchline or sat in front of the television and marvel at the fitness, physique and durability of the modern players. And, just occasionally, I wonder how the players of past eras would measure up, given the same conditioning and knowing the skill levels that some of them possessed. It's a question to which there is no answer.

Being a Christian is a team game too. Yes I know that for each of us, there must be a time when,as individuals, we put our faith in God and ask Him to save us, but that is only the beginning, like the first match and while most of us remember when that took place, it has been all those experiences since that have helped to mould us into the people we are today. I think of many people who crossed my path and guided me in my youth. Ministers, Sunday school teachers, day school teachers, missionaries, friends and relations and many who didn't realise the influence they had. But we were all part of the same family and each helped another in their daily walk, for we were all playing for the same coach. These days I see that team spirit in our church, especially in our study group and know that each is there for the other and that Jesus is there for all of us. He reminds me of this when He says 'I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.' And the secret of the early church just after Jesus had returned to heaven? Luke tells us 'All the believers were together and had everything in common.' Isn't that what we all need. One body of believers, one church and one Lord. It must be worth a try!