D is for DIFFERENT

Tom lived about two hundred yards from my home, at the bottom of a steep hill, in a small cottage with his mum, dad, three brothers and three sisters. He was just a year younger than I and somewhere about the beginning of my teenage years, we struck up a friendship. His mum and dad were already friends with our family and they had lived in the area for longer than I care to remember. Just another two hundred yards along the main road and up another hill, stood the old stone house, surrounded by trees, where his grandmother, grandfather and uncle lived and which I used to visit on a regular basis.

We had similar interests, especially in music and would sit listening to records for hours or shared the singles or LPs we had bought. He was a big fan of T. Rex and together we lived through the Glam Rock period of the seventies. Often we would go for bike rides during the summer, aroung the country roads near our house or hitch a lift into town to visit the local swimming pool. Other times we just sat about, maybe perched on a gate top or a tree or on the pillars standing at an entry to a disused house. Then in the evenings we would jump over the fence into the field opposite his house and, along with his brothers, have a kick about for an hour or so. But as the years passed, so we drifted apart, not because of any disageement or fallout but simply becasue we were different in the only way that seemed to matter in our province at the time, for he was Catholic and I was Protestant. And our middle to late teenage years took us in different directions more and more until we rarely saw each other. I don't recall an exact time when it happened, for it was a gradual process as the two communities found refuge and companionship more readily within their own boundaries and, to be honest, our lives after school had taken us both away from home for several years. But our two families remained firm friends, able to respect each other's traditions and overlook our differences and recently, within the past four years, Tom and I have met on several occasions, mostly at family bereavements and the ease with which we still get along is evidence that the bond we created so many years ago is still alive and well, despite our obvious differences.

I met Joel through a project linking our two schools together about eight years ago. His school was situated in a little village quite close to an impressive chateau in the Loir Valley and after some intitial contact and communication between wife and I and our French counterpart, he came over with another teacher to visit our school with the goal of eventually bringing over some of his pupils to stay in our neighbourhood. Eventually that dream became reality when about twenty French children spent a week visiting the sights of our country and spending some time in our school and a year later they returned the favour when they became our hosts for a week in June and arranged accommodation and trips for our children and staff. It was a wondeerful experience at the time but it did highlight how different we were as individuals and as schools. Joel was a charming host, but often preoccupied with his job and his thoughts, so he seemed to smoke continuously and was never truly at ease. His school was similar to ours though they didn't have uniform and lunch time just seemd to last for ever. Our biggest problem was communication and though my wife spoke French fluently, neither Joel nor I had the same grasp of each other's language and so our conversations were often a mixture of English and French - a sort of Franglais that neither of us completely understood but allowed us to talk, if even in short, rather stuttering sentences. I remember walking back from the Giant's Causeway to the bus together and both promising that we were going to make a bigger effort to learn each other's language so that our conversations might become more meaningful and longer, but in truth, it never happened, because eventually our official link with the school ended and though we still make very occasional contact, there is no need to pursue our language studies. Strange though the fact that he was from a Catholic background never became an issue regarding our differences.

And maybe that's a sign of change beginning to happen in our country for now our minds are less occupied with religious differences when we meet someone and more likely to be wondering about their nationality. In recent years, it is quite possible to go into our local village shops and larger town stores nearby and not hear any accent sounding remotely from these islands and usually you don't have to travel too far to find a shop which caters for the specific nutritional needs of those we now term 'foreign nationals' . Yes, our differences are now much more diverse than before and religion is no longer the yardstick by which we asses our neighbour. Maybe at last we are starting to move forward.

Which is a good thing really, because in essence we are all the same, despite our different languages, cultures, religions and nationalities, for Paul says in Romans 3 verse 23 that 'all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God' and in writing to Timothy, states 'we have put our hope in the living God, who is the Saviour of all men.' With God there is no difference, we are all sinners and we all require the same salvation. And there is no other way, no different way to heaven except through a saving faith in His Son, Jesus Christ.

MInd you, when we take that step of faith, then we are different for we have a different mindset, a different journey and a different ending. TIme to settle your differences.

T is for TEACHER

You see I just don't get it. Here we are, once again in the middle of more educational restructuring in our province, devising a new curriculum or more correctly, revising the curriculum. Now it's not all about knowledge at all, it's about skills, it's about tolerance towards others, it's about being investigative, innovative, revolutionary even, in our thinking, respecting other's opinions, learning to take part in meaningful discussion, being responsible for our own learning, equipping us all to be brilliant at everything. So what do they do? They ignore the opinions of most teachers, won't tolerate their views and least of all show any respect towards them. How have we got to the stage where the tail wags the dog and the dog just barks but it can't bite because its got a muzzle? Unfortunately it's not the first time we have been down this road for in my almost thirty years of experience, change has happened several times in every decade and each time teachers are brought into line by inspectors who tell them what they are doing wrong, only for us teachers to discover a couple of years later that the inspectors were wrong all the time. If they weren't, why do we need changes again? It seems to me that the men in the white coats are needed pretty soon.

And the big change this time is that children are now being encouraged to direct their own learning, right from they enter primary school. Can you imagine that? Children deciding what they want to learn and when. How do they know? And where does that leave the teachers. Well, now we are often called facilitators.That means we arrange, coordinate, design, develop and promote learning, but it doesn't actually say anything about teaching. I tell you I could facilitate all day and the children would absolutely adore school, but, apart from a few, I doubt if they'd know much more when they leave at three o'clock. I was amused today when one of our infant teachers closed down the house corner because the pupils had preferred to wreck it rather than play in it. It was probably the best lesson they had all day! But can you imagine it in the world beyond school. I go along to the bank to cash a cheque but the staff have decided they just don't feel like serving customers today. Or maybe I want to withdraw fifty pound but the bank clerk only wants to play with Euros today. Then I stop at the Travel Agents and they're all cutting out pictures from the brochures and making collages but one of them is sulking in the corner because there are no more Florida brochures left yet nobody can sell me a holiday because (a) somebody stole their calculator or (b) the computers on Google and they don't want to change it or (c) they can't change stations until the boss blows a whistle.


At school we had different types of teachers. Some were strict disciplinarians, others relaxed in class, some shouted all day, a few didn't even need to raise their voice, some stopped you with a look or a frown, others encouraged you with a smile, one or two were spiteful, most remembered their own school days on the other side of the desk. Some were over- enthusiastic about their subject, others saw it as a way to pay the bills But they all had one thing in common, they were employed to teach us and most of them made a good stab at it, though their chosen methods may have been very different. And the strange thing was that we learnt from them, not only how to read, write, talk and calculate and knowledge in the subjects that they taught, but also how to respect others, how not to treat those around us and how to be tolerant of all races, religions and creeds. And we learned because they knew what we needed to know. Only for their perseverance, I would still be sitting at page one of 'Approach to Latin' or 'More Rapid French' or stumbling over 'A First Chemistry' textbook. For that's what teachers do best, they impart knowledge and give us understanding, they answer our questions and help us expand our horizons but most important the majority of them know how to teach and make a good job of it.


When Nicodemus came to see Jesus one night, he was very clear as to what he thought of Him when he said 'we know you are a teacher who has come from God.' The New Testament is full of references to Jesus as Teacher, many from the Pharisees and so called teachers of the law, but there is no doubt that such a term portrayed no only the understanding He had of all things spiritual but the fact that they could learn from Him. Jesus, speaking to His disciples once said 'Nor are you to be called 'teacher,' for you have one Teacher, the Christ.' That reminds me that while I am a teacher by profession, I am always a learner or pupil in spiritual terms but I only learn by reading the words written under the inspiration of God and recorded in the Bible. If I was left to my own devices, ideas, whims and timetable, I could never learn the wonders of my Creator, let alone His love for me. As a small plaque in our house says, 'To teach is to touch a life for ever.' Has the Teacher touched you yet?

T is for TOYS

OK, I know I said that I would move on to a new letter today but we had been talking in class yesterday about how life will have changed in the next fifty years and how some of the things we possess now, will probably be obsolete or non existent by then. And then I got thinking about Creamola Foam and Anglo bubble gum and a pupil this morning told me that her mum remembered a chocolate bar called Bar Six and before long I'm back nearly half a century, no longer thinking about sweets and drinks of my childhood and early teenage years but about the toys that kept me transfixed in my youth. Somewhere out of all of this reminiscing, I'm suddenly transported to a red 'Give a Show' projector that was lit by several large cylindrical batteries and came with about sixteen filmstrips each consisting of seven or so celluloid frames on a strip of cardboard that you could feed through the projector and shine on any wall. SO I had my own Yogi Bear, Popeye and Huckleberry Hound shows in the relative lack of privacy of my own kitchen where the wallpaper was flowered and made viewing interesting.

Then I'm in the land of Subbuteo table soccer, complete with green cloth pitch that never lies flat on any table, especially where it has been folded, but who cares , because nobody has a table big enough for the pitch and, anyway, it lies much better on the sitting room carpet, with a few books at each corner to hold it in place. A small, plastic fence and two floodlights at diagonally opposite corners and, once everyone is sitting in the dark, the match can begin. Except, that in a hurry to line up a shot, my arm has accidentally trod on my number seven, who now lies motionless (as he always has done) and will take no further part in the game but looks like he might be out for the whole season. In Subbuteo, there is no transfer window, in fact there isn't even a substitute and as last week my number five fell victim to a heavy tackle from my right knee as I made my way across the pitch, I am now reduced to eight outfield players and a goalie. It's at times like this that I am thankful to the Subbuteo staff for making Subbuteo Rugby, which is meant to resemble the real game but does so in the same way that Cola Bottles sweets are supposed to be like the real thing. Anyway, like it or not my number fifteen, in red and white hoops, temporarily gives up his career as the Wigan full back and becomes a right winger with the England eleven. Now that's what I call a whole new ball game!

But before half time I'm again whisked away to where two cars are racing around a figure eight track with a little slot holding each in place, until after too many laps the connections are burnt off and the box doesn't come with any spares, so it's a DIY job in the pits with a few bits of bent metal that keep the race going just long enough until I grow tired and move on again. This time I'm stopping outside an old wooden fort, complete with wind up drawbridge, portcullis and ramp and a collection of very evil, medieval-looking characters, some on horseback with lances and most wielding swords and shields. As time passes, they become evicted from their home to be replaced by a bunch of cavalry, taking refuge from the Apaches and a horde of other redskin tribes, until a proper plastic fort, though much smaller in scale, but with its own lookout tower, arrives and the upturned fort now becomes a box for everything else.

And then I'm off again, marvelling at the little jewelled headlights on a gold coloured Dinky Cortina with opening front doors and a Britains Land Rover pulling a horsebox with working tailgate, while steering a Ford tractor in circles around a mat as it pulls a yellow Britains baler that is dropping off bales every few inches, but with only twelve bales in my total collection, it looks like the crop will be light again this year, in fact exactly the same as it was last year and the year before. And then it's the turn of the Lego bricks to reappear, nothing fancy , you understand, in fact not used for building as they once were, but now replacing the Subbuteo men as they take total control of the football pitch, shooting into the netted goals that have been trampled on so many times, they only now stand with the aid of vast quantities of sellotape at every joint. And before long I'm off again, reliving my childhood in the Scalextric set of my sons, the combine harvester that one of them pushes around the carpet on his birthday, Action Man, the Lego trucks, Thomas the Tank Engine railway, Thunderbirds Island, a karaoke machine, My Little Puppies and Chocolate money and suddenly life doesn't seem so long after all.

Paul in his writings in Corinthians says, 'When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.' And while that literally is true as we grow up into adulthood, isn't it equally true that to grow more in our faith requires us to move beyond the former things that once satisfied and to seek out a deeper understanding of our God and His love for us. And that's why Paul in his letter to the Hebrews writes, 'Anyone who lives on milk, being still an infant, is not acquainted with the teaching about righteousness. But solid food is for the mature, who by constant use have trained themselves to distinguish good from evil.' We need to move on from that initial childhood state after we're born again and seek the meat that is only found deeper in His Word.

I'll never forget the toys of my childhood, but I don't need them now. And I'll never forget my understanding of God as a child, but I've moved on. It's time to grow up.

T is for TOMORROW

Tomorrow I have chosen to move to a new letter in my writings though by the time you read what I write, it will be today and today will be yesterday - which says a lot for the day before today, that is now totally forgotten.

I've always loved the word 'tomorrow' and find great comfort in knowing that not everything has to be accomplished today. I suppose I'm a bit of a procrastinator but I'd rather leave that subject for some other time! But you do get great peace of mind in realising that a bill that pops through your letterbox today doesn't necessarily require immediate attention and a phone call that's in your mind to make will probably do later in the week. Over Christmas I had planned to visit an old friend of mum and dad but tomorrow always seemed to be a very convenient word - and I'm still no closer to that visit, but I will do it, some day - maybe even tomorrow! I suppose what we all mean by tomorrow in such instances is really 'sometime in the near future' for tomorrow rarely comes on the day that we expect it to and it seems to lack a degree of urgency when we use it.

There are many instances when tomorrow really becomes something to look forward to, like knowing that tomorrow is the first day of the holidays, Christmas Day, your wedding day, or tomorrow is pay day, or even that tomorrow is Friday or tomorrow signals a cinema visit, a big football match or a chance to catch up with the rest of the family when they come home from college. Equally, there are many moments when tomorrow can carry on its wings, emotions and feelings that do not rest easily on our shoulders so the thought of visiting the dentist, going for medical tests,sitting an exam or even the driving test do not bring the same calm, peaceful warmth to our souls. Sometimes tomorrow can mean an inevitable confrontation, the loss of or final goodbye to a loved one, a deadline that must be met, the first day of a new career or the last day of an old one, the beginning of retirement, the start of medical treatment, an important operation or even a new resolution that we make. And , in a moment of weakness, when the clothes fit more tightly, the wine bottle is nearly empty, the cigarette box has only a few sticks left, when we only see the children asleep because we are too busy, when every step we take requires more effort, not to mention more oxygen, how often have we said, 'tomorrow I'm going to change.' Who are we kidding? If we can't make such decisions today, how do we hope to make them tomorrow for very soon it just becomes today as well. At such times, I think tomorrow carries much more urgency than we think.

At school, it was always a welcome relief to hear the teacher say that we would have to 'finish something off tomorrow', for then you knew that the class was almost over and freedom was just around the corner. Inversely, hearing that same phrase when you were in the middle of a football kick about or a Science experiment that was really enjoyable, was a bit of a disappointment. Sometimes tomorrow fills you with great hope, on other occasions it gives you no hope. At home, when wife and I are gardening, which sometimes just amounts to shrub or flower gazing, there is that in-built conscience which suddenly switches on like a light bulb and whispers gently but very loudly in your ear, 'let's finish the rest tomorrow'. How comforting it is to know that tomorrow exists for such days like gardening days, lawn mowing days, car washing days and housework days.

I suppose I'm as guilty as anyone for using tomorrow as a get out clause. How often have you been asked by your children about something and your reply has been, 'We'll do that tomorrow.' You can relax again for a few hours but you better be thinking ahead for they won't forget your promise twenty four hours later and if we keep using tomorrow as an excuse, eventually it starts to have the same meaning as 'never'.

Which is probably why the writer of Proverbs says 'Do not boast about tomorrow, for you do not know what a day may bring forth' and also why Jesus, in Matthew's Gospel, says 'Therefore do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own.' And it's also why Paul, bringing more urgency, write to the Corinthians, 'I tell you, now is the time of God's favour, now is the day of salvation.' Not tomorrow, but now. Today is not the day to procrastinate about His great gift of grace for tomorrow may never come. In Hebrews we read, 'Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever.' That makes tomorrow a very long time!

T is for TRAIL

It starts and ends wherever you want it to and can take as long or as short a time as you wish. For me, it begins about one hundred yards from home at the bottom of a steep hill that once was graced with an apple tree orchard on one side of which was the beginning of the trail, leading all the way from the lane right down to the banks of the river.The initial path was overshadowed by a row of beech, chestnut, oak and other tree varieties that had stood for more than a century but in the ensuing reorganisation farmland of the late seventies had failed to survive and thus made, like the orchard for one large green field. So now the first signs of any path or trail is when you reach the river at one of its most extreme meanderings, a turn that I thought, as a young student, would probably lead to an ox bow lake by the time I was older, but it has never happened.

There is no official trail, just a track worn down by thousands of footprints over the years, that runs alongside the river bank, sometimes close to the edge, at other places, several feet above on a raised height, but all of it on somebody else's land so I guess every time I walk its length, you could call it trespassing. Yet because I've lived here all my life, I feel a certain sense of ownership of its privacy and the freedom to walk where it takes me. And where it takes me is just as interesting, for after ambling through ancient trees that line its bank and the fallen trunks of others that once stood so tall, but now lie leafless and motionless, after crawling through one or two barbed wire fences and climbing over gates, I arrive at what we traditionally have called 'Hall's Island'. This is not an island in the true sense of the word, since no lake or sea encircles its boundaries though on recent trips, there is ample evidence in the waterlogged fields around it of the incessant rainfall that has been our winter and where it is necessary to squelch through several inches of water to reach its 'shore'. No, this island is made up of a slightly raised patch of circular land, about thirty yards in diameter, that rises to be a small hill in the middle where the remnant walls of a stone house still stand enshrouded by about sixty or seventy tall trees across the circular area. I think dad said that a Hall family once lived here though I don't know anything more about their history and certainly it is possible though the house now stands some distance from the main roads in the area. In more modern times, the 'island' has been home to gaming enthusiasts during the shooting season, though there is little evidence to suggest their presence recently.

As I walk along the path, weaving between the trees, the soft, shifting silt beneath my feet, deposited after the recent flooding and the line of empty plastic bottles and the occasional deflated football marking the boundary of where the river waters invaded the fields, I remember the times I have walked this trail and how, so often, it has taken me to another place, this time in my thoughts. A trail I followed in my imaginary cogitations as a young boy, in my solitary preparations for job interviews, in times when family illness had invaded my privacy and oh so many days when I just needed time and space to be alone with my thoughts. And now, after not treading the path for so long, I again find myself walking its length and finding the solitariness and the calmness that I once knew but that actually always existed in this place., even when I wasn't here

And so I remember too that when the Prodigal son could no longer find peace and enjoyment in the things that he chased, he would return to the well worn path and the refuge of home, where he knew things would still be the same and the welcome was always warm and inviting. The writer of Proverbs says 'Listen, my son, and be wise, and keep your heart on the right path' and the Psalmist records 'Direct me in the path of your commands, for there I find delight.' As I return home from my walk, the trail I have trod for so long leads upwards to the top of a steep hill. The climb is strenuous but the view at the top is magnificent! In Proverbs we read 'The path of life leads upward for the wise' and it's only as we climb to a higher place with God that we see the greater picture of His glory and the wonder of His majesty and creation. Take some time today to walk the trail and don't be afraid to climb the hill.

T is for TIME

I've decided that from now on I'm not going to find anything interesting or exciting, that I'm going to be bored by everything. I've also decided not to fall asleep at night any more, never to watch the last fifteen minutes of a game when Liverpool are losing by one goal, not to attend any more concerts by artists whom I really enjoy and never, ever go on a holiday again. Am I being too hasty? I don't think so for when you get to be the wrong side of fifty (or is it the right side?), every single minute is precious and those are all the moments when time just goes far too quickly. Not like a long, uninspiring lecture or sermon, having a conversation with someone who does all the talking while you do all the listening, walking the floor all night with toothache, an overnight flight , watching the last fifteen minutes of a game where Liverpool are hanging on by one goal, waiting for a bus, revising for an exam, going to school, waiting for that all important letter, or waiting for the result of a hospital tests. Now those are the situations when time really drags. It's almost as if two different clocks are in operation but in truth an hour has never been any shorter or longer, it's just how you spend it that changes your mindset. And I guess we can find time for the things we really want to find time for. But an hour's a long time in the wrong place or the wrong company.

I used to have time for everything when I was a kid, when the days seemed long, the evenings passed quickly and the summer holidays even faster. A whole half hour of Latin was endless, a double period of Art, a life sentence and an evening's revision, just too much to bear. It was a time when Sunday afternoons went slowly but the evenings just disappeared as a new school week loomed and when there just didn't ever seem to be enough time to play football before darkness covered the whole yard. But nobody was making demands on my time, only me, yet as I grew older, I soon discovered that I needed the whole evening to revise and a few more besides and just couldn't pack all the things I needed to do on a Sunday afternoon because my time was no longer my own.

I suppose none of us is any different and each day brings new demands in its twenty four hours and we respond to those demands by putting greater stress into our lives as we try to accomplish more in less time. And isn't it funny that no matter how many new or extra things crop up, we still seem to find the time to fit them all in. It's make you wonder what you've been doing with your time all along. The problem, though is that probably something is squeezed into less time or out altogether to make way for another demand that we deem to be more relevant or important. Sometimes it's family time, husband-wife time, boyfriend-girlfriend time, children time, exercise time, chill out time, visiting time, television time, but more often than not it's God time. Imagine that, the One who made time in the first place not being given time! I suppose it begins with the time we spend at home in quietness with Him, but sometimes it's as simple as wanting 'me' time on a Sunday morning when the week has been totally hectic. The trouble is, an hour lost is exactly that. Lost! And it's often difficult to reconcile the fact that we call ourselves Christians and love God with all our heart, soul, mind and strength but only at those times we have set aside when we're not busy with some other project.

There used to be a band called The Joy Strings. They were a youth part of the Salvation army in the sixties and mum somehow managed to get one of their EPs. It contained a song called 'Time' and the lyrics, though they are somewhat vague now, went something like, ' Men can find time to worry and hate, men can find time to fight, men can't find time before it's too late, too late to find time for what's right'. This may not be correct word for word but the sentiment is pretty clear. We make time for what we want and we waste time on what we want. But God took the time to show HE loved us and maybe it's time we gave Him back what is rightfully His - the time we call our own. In Paul's letter to the Corinthians we read, 'I tell you, now is the time of God's favour, now is the day of salvation.' We would do well to be ready for Jesus Himself says of His return, 'No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son,but only the Father.' I hope you've taken the time to read this. It could lengthen your life!

T is for TORCH

Why is it that just when you need a torch, either the batteries are completely flat or you've removed them to use in some other appliance or the bulb has blown? Dad used to keep reciting the oldest joke in the book when he would say, 'Where was Moses when the lights went out? to which the answer is 'In the dark'. I'm not sure where in the Bible, there is mention of Moses in this lack of light but I guess an adequate reply would be 'But he didn't have to be if he'd been Ever Ready.' Anyway, like most families, torches have been part of our history since I was a kid. Dad had received several over the years as Christmas presents from us because he used one almost every day. Usually, it was dark in the morning when he went out to feed the cattle so the torch went with him and it was quite a strange sight, if not a little bit eerie, to see this dark figure moving slowly up the yard with a bale of hay across his back and a bright light bobbing slowly by his side. After a wet, cold winter or two, during which it would fall off walls, be left in wet puddles or even get trampled on by hungry hooves, the torch was ready for a rest and it was then time to replace it with a newer version, though I remember one, bright red in colour, that lasted for many years, but only with the help of sellotape. The battery was huge, about the size of a pint carton of milk but would usually last most of one winter.

When wife got her horse a few years back, my nod of approval and assistance amounted to a lovely rechargeable torch with both normal and fluorescent lights and a red, flashing, warning light, though I'm not sure what benefit the latter was when standing in a dark field with a motionless horse in the middle of the night. The only problem with the torch was that it was about the size of a small house and had to hang vertically from your hand so it wasn't easy to direct light on to any object. So horses and I remained in the dark about each other.

One of my recent mobile phones had an on-board torch that doubled as a flashlight for the camera and it could be set to produce white light but also red, blue, green, yellow and purple beams. It was a very useful tool to have when out for a walk on a dark night but eventually I decided not to use the colours too often as too many aeroplanes travel over the top of our house on their way to the airport and I didn't want to be responsible for one landing in the lane outside.

In the late seventies, I bought a torch in America that was self powered and required no batteries. There was a ratchet mechanism inside that, when the handle was squeezed, it turned a little dynamo inside and light appeared at the front. But excessive squeezing eventually caused the plastic ratchet mechanism to break and that was the end of it all. So it was a wonderful surprise to discover that a local shop was offering a more modern version of the same thing recently and at £4:99, could you go wrong? So I took the plunge and it's been a wonderful success, though to say it has revolutionised my life is somewhat of an overstatement. Initially, wife was sceptical of my purchase but since that time I have discovered others who have taken the same plunge as myself and we all agree that it was worth the huge outlay. The other evening, when youngest son and I were studying the engine of his car, in a dark lay by, after a breakdown, out came the old self winding torch and all I had to say was 'let there be light' and there was light. Now, most of my household have used it at a time for some purpose and the greatest benefit of having it is that I know I never will need to worry about running out of batteries and that when the lights do go out, I'll not end up like Moses did, according to dad.

But I guess dad wasn't so far off the mark with his joke after all, for the truth is that you really only know what darkness is when you've experienced the light. Jesus is the light of the world, in Him is no darkness at all and when you experience that light you begin to realise the darkness that existed in your life before He came into it. That's why it's hard to imagine anyone wanting to go back to a life without that light and I'm suspect those who have slipped into the shadows know exactly that life could be better, for when you're in the shadows, you can still see the light. It's all about the preparations we make, isn't it, for to know that the torch to light the way is there for us and to not have the power source necessary is unwise if not a little careless. As Paul says, in his writings to the church at Ephesus, 'For you were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light.' Let your light shine.

T is for TEETH

All my teeth are my own, but I don't have all of them! I lost one or two long before I had left school, which was decidedly careless, though at the time I was quite happy to see them go as they weren't on their best behaviour for some time previously. I readily accept that I had a fairly major role to play in their unruliness and had been warned many times that such a situation would, not could, develop if I didn't take action. But I was indifferent and indeed oblivious to the advice that I received and didn't even notice a problem arising. Even when the first signs of difficulty appeared I remained unmoved, reassuring myself that such action was for another day. This procrastination could only lead to one place and eventually I arrived - in the dentist's chair and neither of us was particularly pleased to see the other. Sometimes it was a mere filling, other times more drastic measures were required as his silver coloured pliers entered my mouth from somewhere behind his back and began pulling, like a JCB removing a large tree from its roots. At least that's what it felt like to me. Yet it didn't matter what treatment was needed for all were prefaced by the injection needle, often on several occasions and in several different places. The fact that I was reassured that it wouldn't really hurt, maybe only a slight pin prick, was not altogether comforting, especially when that pin prick is happening inside probably the most tender and sensitive part of your body where everything is magnified a million times.

Since those school days, I have revisited my dentist on a regular basis, some planned and some out of necessity and while I am quite comfortable going now and realise that there are worse things in life, though they don't spring to mind just at the moment, I still find it hard to completely relax in the chair.

Our first family dentist was a stern man with little sympathy for sniffling children, white with fear. In those days, a visit to his surgery was an hour of terror and I remember on one occasion that he had slapped my sister on the face because she was tearful as he worked at her mouth. That was the last straw for mum and dad and they told him so, in no uncertain terms and we never returned to his practice. I think it left a lasting impression on us as kids and for the next few years I guess we assumed that all dentists had the same tyrannical approach to their patients, but in all my years since I have never met any who are unpleasant. That doesn't take away the fact that they still have as job to do which on occasions cane be painful for the patient and on at least one occasion, about twenty years ago, I was reduced to writing notes to wife because the work on my mouth had rendered it impossible to move it enough to talk. I think she was hoping I would visit the dentist every day!

What has certainly helped is the advance in treatment and equipment available now with the injection really reduced to just a pin prick and all care being taken to make the patient feel as comfortable as possible and to restrict pain to an absolute minimum. Nowadays, dentists don't breathe over you without a mask, they wear surgical gloves and they talk you through the whole procedure. Then they take all your money as you leave! But one thing that hasn't changed over the years is that they like to ask you questions when your mouth is full of suction tubes, cotton wool and clamps and the best you can answer is a sort of aha or naw with a shake of the head to accompany your voice. I remember one dentist who was also a good friend and fellow member of my rugby club and who usually fitted me in around about closing time, so several evenings after we had chatted about rugby for a good hour and long after everyone else had gone home, he would get around to looking inside my mouth and my initial reason for being there was almost secondary. Oh if all dentists could be just like him, but at least I now know they're all human though childhood memories suggested otherwise. Now brushing and flossing are a way of life and I've no plans to visit the tooth fairy in the near future.

It's funny how what happens in childhood often sticks with you for ever and the memories are very hard to erase. Maybe that's why the writer of Ecclesiastes says 'Remember your Creator in the days of your youth' and Jesus said 'Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these.' The writer of Proverbs is equally specific when he says 'Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it.'

I learned at an early about the dentist and the dangers of not looking after my teeth but I also learned about Jesus and His love for me and I've never forgotten it. Maybe you learned too but you just need a fresh injection. Have I touched a nerve?

T is for TABLE

Our kitchen table at home was square, with four thick wooden legs and a top that was about three quarters of an inch thick. It could be extended to twice the length by pulling out the two leaves that nestled neatly below the main top, but this was rarely needed, though at most meal times one extension was used. The table remained in the kitchen area until mum and dad passed away, but long before that, they had already resigned themselves to sitting at the square unless some of the extended family dropped in at an unexpected or prearranged mealtime.

At primary school our dinner table was our desk, such was the confined space in which lunch hour operated though I don't remember pupils bringing lunch to school and have no recollection as to where they sat if they did indeed supply their own food.

By the time I had reached grammar school, the dining setting was altogether more ornate and much more formal with eight pupils sitting at a heavy wooden table marshalled by a sixth former who directed all operations relating to the sharing of the food which came to each table in containers. And while there was clearly enough food for everyone at a table, the senior pupils clearly didn't have the vision of the cooks when they served it on to the plates and one glance around the table clearly displayed the haves and the have nots. Every seat had on its back the carved name of a former pupil including his years of attendance and many of the tables had also been donated in memory of some individual who no doubt had suffered the famine years of first form in a field of plenty. Mostly, we had to eat our lunch in silence, which in an educational world that attempts to equip us with all the social skills to communicate, seemed to me to be a bit pointless, especially as a dining table is generally considered to be the perfect place to spend time conversing. The first two tables we had in our own home were both round and while they can sometimes suffer from lack of space for all the requirements for a dinner party they do compensate by allowing everyone to be involved in a conversation and sometimes prevent others from carrying on their own personal tête-à-tête.

Recently we bought a new table, this time rectangular in shape and have enjoyed some great evenings around it with friends, so much so that we rarely leave it for the comfort of a living room , such is the appeal of good conversation over a meal. But during the renovations that preceded it, most days for several weeks, our table was an upturned door balanced precariously on top of a cardboard box. Let's just say, conversation was usually short and to the point and some meals were eaten from a standing start though that experience does help one to appreciate a good table when it arrives.

In a way we're a bit addicted to tables, though I think it's more the opportunity it affords to enjoy a good chat, spread out a newspaper or just enjoy a coffee or drink and a read. This is especially true of outside where we now have several places to sit at different small tables and to enjoy the company and fresh air or just to ponder the day's thoughts alone.

It's interesting that Jesus reclined at a table with His disciples and later that day, took bread, broke it and gave thanks before offering it to them as a symbol of His body. As we come before His table at communion and share also the wine as a symbol of His blood representing the new covenant, we are reminded that to take part in such a sacrament without having surrendered our lives to Him is to live a lie. The Lord's table has a special significance and purpose for all believers and is a constant reminder of His goodness towards us and His constant presence with us. The Psalmist, in that well known chapter 23, says 'You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.' God provides all we need through His love and regardless of our human frailness or difficulties, our table is always full of the good things He can give. Maybe it's time to rest awhile at that table and see for yourself.

T is for TREEHOUSE

I'm not a carpenter or joiner. In fact I'm not even close. Wife thinks I should be a handyman and I keep telling her that I am because I'm always just around the corner, but I guess that's not what she really means! However, over the years I have learned to hang pictures and curtain rails, put up shelves and paint with a fair degree of precision and give me a piece of wood and I can make it into something else with not too much effort, though it won't resemble anything that you would recognise. So I take my hat off to all those joiners, carpenters, wood turners and handymen who can just about do anything about the house though experience tells me that they prefer to do it in somebody else's home, where they stand a reasonable chance of getting paid for their efforts. I know quite a few husbands who can go far beyond picture hanging and shelf fixing and have even put down decking, hung doors, laid skirting boards and erected stud walls. I often browse around the old DIY stores such as B & Q or Homebase and it's not long before you begin to realise that for every one handyman there are a good dozen who are handless. But the DIY store is where they intend to put all wrongs to right, gathering paint, wood, tiles, lights, doors, shelves and all the necessary fittings for their own personal Everest attempt in the living room or kitchen. I know for I've been there and pushed the trolley on several occasions. And most of my attempts have been OK though others, rather than being out of this world are more out of sight. Take the attic for example. A few lengths of chipboard later and suddenly I can create extra storage for junk, though experience has since taught me that a bow saw is a better instrument for cutting logs than flat and wide wooden boards and that a power screwdriver might just make the job easier if not quicker.

Which is why my first really major attempt at joinery was beyond the confines of the dwelling house and as far away as possible from public view. I chose a nice apple tree when sons suggested, in the innocence all primary school children possess that their dads can do absolutely everything, proposed that I construct a tree house. Two reasons decided my choice. First, it was close to a very high hedge so nobody could see the building in progress nor view the finished product. Secondly, the tree was as far from the house as you can go, without trespassing, but still on a level piece of ground that eased the burden of carrying wood and the like to the site. We began with an old wooden pallet that sat sturdily and evenly between several thick trunk-like branches. I use the word 'we' to deflect the possible outcome as being all my own work, should it be a disaster, but also to remind me that at the outset, two sons had offered to help, though this didn't materialise in practice. A vertical frame was engineered (Oh I do love that word) and to this was attached a selection of boards to make the four sides and some thinner and wider pieces for the roof. We even managed to make two small windows with sliding shutters, though these didn't see out the first month and also a door that we had rescued from an old kitchen cabinet. By the time it was all finished, the whole construction stood about one and a quarter metres high and just about the same length in every other direction and with the addition of a little piece of carpet and a portable battery powered light, it was almost liveable. We even prepared breakfast in it one morning, using the power of a little camping gas burner to boil water and eggs and for a long while, a few Beanos remained hidden under the carpet.

I took a walk past it the other day. All the trees that surrounded it are now gone, the hedge is cut much lower and there is a good chance that a man on a racing ostrich would spot it on his way past, though I don't imagine he would add it to the wonders of the world, except maybe in wondering how it has stayed up for the past ten or twelve years. I must admit it is not in the greatest state of repair at present, with the roof now somewhere in the adjacent field, one of the windows rather bigger than before and a new low rise window appearing near the base at the front. But the door still closes as good as new! Maybe if I'd paid a bit more attention to it over the years, it wouldn't need such a massive restoration programme though I don't think it's worth entering in that BBC programme. Or maybe???????

Neglect is a terrible thing. There is no doubt that the ruins that we so often love to visit in our establishment of links with the past, are usually in that state because of neglect and there comes a point in almost every ruin where there is no longer the possibility of restoration and the best thing to do is to pull it down. Of course some have been preserved in their present state but never can they return to what they once were and I guess our tree house, in some small way, is teetering between the two. The trouble with neglect is that too often it happens with the full knowledge of the person who could do something about it, whether it be failing to visit the doctor, not mending a broken fence, not eating properly or healthily or sticking our heads in the sand over some issue. But to neglect our spiritual relationship is to lead to ruin for ever. And it's so easy to do, because, like physical neglect, it's a gradual thing, but before too long the signs are obvious. In Psalm 119 verse 16 the writer says, 'I delight in your decrees; I will not neglect your word.' The Bible has stories about people like Saul, Samson and Judas who gradually neglected their beliefs and God's word and were left with ruined lives. The good news though is that God can restore even the most ruined life for His glory and make us like new creatures. Now that's not something to neglect.

T is for TONGUE

They say we can taste four different substances though my eldest, in his studies, suggests that we can taste five and who am I to disagree with somebody who might someday be prescribing my tablets! Anyway, a quick bit of research has revealed that after all he may be right for I have discovered through the wonders of the Internet, another taste called 'umami' which roughly translated, means the savouriness of foods. Of the four I know about, I've never thought of myself as terribly keen on anything that is bitter, yet again more research indicates that this category includes coffee, which I adore, dark chocolate that I enjoy and vegetables in the cabbage family, including Brussels Sprouts, so I guess I'll have to revise my thoughts on that category. At school, we used to have a test for bitterness where everyone was given a piece of white paper impregnated with a chemical known as PTC. Many people could clearly taste the bitter chemical but there was always a number who couldn't and this was said to be said to be due to genetic variation. I could taste it for it reminded me of the vile liquid that mum painted on my nails to stop me biting them when I was young. The truth is that I got used to the taste and it didn't have the desired effect, so my nails stayed unpleasantly short until I fell in love with the guitar and realised that I needed longer ones on my right hand to pick the strings.

Sour tastes I am again divided on with things like vinegar pleasant enough in the company of chips, beetroot or pickle but less so in solitary confinement, while lemon or lime juice can be a welcome distraction in a glass of water and a glass of breakfast orange goes down well though an intimidating piece of grapefruit can be less than appetizing but like most people I'm not a big fan of sour milk.

Sweet things speak for themselves, usually in all the wrong places and I don't think there is anyone who is completely void of this taste and its occasional pleasantries but even within this rather broad band of sugary delights, most of us have an acceptable limit beyond which we rarely travel, except perhaps as one of our over-indulgences at Christmas. However there are those whose behaviour merits some attention since they enjoy the delights of lemon juice on pancakes but combine it with an ample sprinkling of sugar. I guess these are the sweet and sour people who keep all our Chinese restaurants in business.

When God created the ability in each of us to taste, no doubt it was for the enjoyment of the foods he would also provide but it was also for our well being in that we could quickly recognise an unknown or dangerous substance that might be toxic or poisonous before it entered our general digestive system. And while most of that is taken care of by the food companies, I don't think we ever lose that ability to recognise what we like and what we should approach with caution.

However, of far more importance than tasting is the role the tongue plays in our every day communications with each other. To be able to talk, to form words and allow them to float into the air for everyone to hear is indeed one of life's great treasures and one which women seem to appreciate with great relish and make full use of! I mean, why use one word when thirty will do just as well? I jest of course. Yet how many of us parents wait longingly for that first recognisable word from our infant son or daughter and I don't mean, 'Dad, can you lend me ten quid for petrol?' It's amazing just how much we just want them to start talking and then spend the next ten years asking them not to!

And yet how true that our words can bring happiness, division, sadness, anger, joy, laughter, tears, resentment, hope, worry, delusion, deception and disgust and all because one of the smallest parts of our body is not always under the control of our brain. The writer of Proverbs says 'Reckless words pierce like a sword,but the tongue of the wise brings healing' and 'He who guards his mouth and his tongue keeps himself from calamity.' So when we speak, how careful are we not only of the words we choose but also of how we say them? Do we speak when we should be listening or do we criticise when we should advise? Jesus says one thing is certain that when He returns ''every knee will bow before me; every tongue will confess to God.' Have you tasted His goodness in your life and can you speak of the salvation that He offers. Maybe you need a taste of something new.

'How sweet the name of Jesus sounds.'

T is for TWINS

Doris and Daphne, Roy and Eric, Malcolm and Martin, Noel and Rodney, Jill and Joy three had one thing in common. First, they were pupils at the school where I was teaching, secondly, each pair were siblings and thirdly and most importantly, they were all identical twins. What made it even more strange was that they were all at school at the same time, during my teaching stretch there. They came back into my mind yesterday when a read in the papers about identical twins who had just celebrated their hundredth birthday and identical triplets who had reached the milestone of eighty years. I wondered what it must be like to be identical to someone else and it was interesting to read that the triplets still sometimes wear each other's clothes, even long after their three score and ten years have elapsed. And while they reckoned that they would have enough puff to blow out two hundred and forty candles on their cake, I guess it would have been a bit of a fire hazard on the table! One of them, on a recent holiday had spent most of the fortnight trying to convince an old friend that he wasn't one of his two other brothers and I know all about that because for years it was just about impossible to tell some of our pupils apart so we resorted to calling one of the pairs above, who were more identical than all the others, if you can imagine that, simply as 'twin'. That way you never got it wrong and that was the first lesson I learned about twins, that, despite having a replica of themselves, they really want to be their own person.

Many times when I called to Malcolm to answer a question in class, his first response was always to say 'Martin' and vice-versa with the brother so after a while I just sort of pointed in his general direction and I think he probably knew I was hedging, by the slight grin on his face. What made it more difficult of course was that they were both in the same class all the way through school while some of the others had been in different classes because of the subjects they chose or sometimes because one twin was more academically minded than the other. Which brought me to my second lesson about twins in that while they might look identical on the outside they both possess different abilities on the inside.

John and Jayne were also twins in the school, though, as you will have already worked out, were not identical - his hair was much more curly! They also weren't in the same class but like all the other sets, had a closeness that you don't get between other brothers and sisters. They always looked out for each other and had a genuine concern for their twin's well being. And that was the third lesson I learned about twins, identical or otherwise, that they seemed to feel the pain of the other partner and was always genuinely interested in them.

It was therefore not an easy task trying to teach such groups. After all, they dressed the same, though this is to be expected when they are wearing school uniform, they often played tricks on others by impersonating their twin and also they were expected to be equally good at all the things in which their double excelled.

All of them are well into adulthood now and most are married and I thought I'd left the whole twins thing far behind. But over the years I have managed to acquire twin cousins and more recently we have enrolled as couple of sets of the non-identical variety in school. IN the past year also, a second twin has joined his brother at our church fellowship and both of them admit to some interesting conversations with people whom they don't know but clearly think they do.

As Christians, we are in a sense like twins or triplets in being all the same to God. Yes, he has given us individual personalities, different shapes, sizes and looks, even different languages and colours but essentially we are identical in that all who receive His salvation, do so in the same way by repentance and faith and a very generous portion of His grace. But like twins, He still knows that we all have different abilities, need to be our own person but He expects us to care for each other, to be concerned for the physical, emotional and spiritual needs of our brothers and sisters in Christ and to love them with an unconditional love. Paul, in his letter to the church at Rome, reminds them 'Be devoted to one another in brotherly love. Honor one another above yourselves.'

We have no twins in our immediate family but we all have the same heavenly Father and though we were all born again at different times, we possess the same salvation and the same Holy Spirit living within. I hope that though others see our physical differences they also observe our spiritual sameness for that's what God sees in everyone who believes. And that's doubly reassuring.

T is for TRANSPOSE

A few years ago, I bought an electric piano. You'll understand that I'm no Mozart on the ivories, even though I went to music lessons for about eight years and managed to complete several exams. There are just too many notes on the darn thing and often I could play all the correct ones in a song, but not necessarily in the right order. We used to learn pieces like the William Tell Overture, that I knew better as the Lone Ranger theme music and also I had a book of Fireside Songs that included one of my all time favourites called 'The Ballad of Master McGrath'. I used to sit at the piano in our sitting room and sing as I played it and, contrary to its slightly familiar title, it wasn't about dog food, but about a great racing greyhound, though I suspect he could have ended up inside a can after his usefulness on the track had waned. Anyway, apart from that and a couple of other songbooks that contained old classics like Rule Britannia, Danny Boy and TheMinstrel Boy, on the whole, exam music was not particularly inspiring for a young teenager who had just discovered Dylan and 'flower power' and was seeking solace in a piece of wood with six strings st etched down its length. So something had to change and it did. Somewhere, in the middle of this tangled mess of black and white notes, I discovered chords and immediately a whole new world began to open up. The closest I had come to understanding chords and keys in my prior tuition was in the songs I learned to play from the church hymnbook but now I had discovered that you could play the piano just like the guitar, not literally of course, with the whole contraption strapped around your neck, but more as an accompaniment rather than just playing the tune. So I found the chord of C in its several forms and its close relatives of F and G plus a couple of minors and before long I was up and running, crooning to collection of sounds that previously had been hidden beneath an black and white ivory carpet. Within days the secrets of this new world would expand as the Keys of D, F and G revealed themselves unto me so I suddenly found myself in a place that I wanted to be and I think mum knew that my tutor driven learning was drawing to a close.

Over the years I have experimented with other keys but I always seem to be drawn back to my very first experience of C and its friends. I think that's because you can accompany a whole song without going near those strange black keys at all, so when I bought the electric piano, I found a new and very necessary friend in the 'transpose' button. You see this allows me to write a song or accompany myself or wife in any key and still play in a key that I want to. This has revolutionised my life, though I know its a bit of a cheat really and when I watch younger son, who has studied music to a much higher level than I will ever reach, play whole songs almost completely on black keys, and never need to go near the button in question, I realise that there is no substitute for hard work and dedication when it comes to learning an instrument.

Guitarists are equally well catered for in this respect as the old 'Capo' can be fixed across any fret and immediately transposes a tune into another key and I understand that this is less of a cheat because sometimes a song just doesn't sound right unless you play it using a particular set of chords. Over the years I have had a fair selection of capos, all just variations on the same theme and some lasting longer than others but generally, all allowed me to play in keys that I was more comfortable with. However there is generally an unwritten rule that you don't use a capo on an electric guitar unless it's absolutely necessary, a sort of last resort in an emergency. I'm not sure why this is, because it can do a wonderful job at times but I guess it has got something to do with the fact that if you play an electric to any reasonable level you are deemed to be versatile enough to play in any key without the aid of such contraptions. Anyway, you will rarely see a capo stretched across the strings of such an instrument and maybe that's not a bad thing for it encourages guitarists to work more at their instrument and to explore what it actually can do. Other musicians have little alternative but to put in the long hours and practise since most instruments don't have the luxury of a capo or a transpose button and that's why I admire anyone, regardless of their chosen instrument, who has mastered it to the extent to not only play in any key but to mentally transpose as they play. Now I understand that certain instruments are only able to be used in one particular key but even here there is no substitute for hard work in order to achieve mastery.

However I think the word transpose beautifully encapsulates what God does with each of our lives when we allow Him to take control. My dictionary tells me that I could easily substitute transpose with convert, change, transform, transfigure, reverse, turn, relocate, alter, reorder, shift or metamorphose, such is the all encompassing nature of the word and when I look at all those acceptable alternatives, I realise how different my life can be with God in charge of the transpose button. Truly He makes me live life in a different key but essentially I'm still the same person and while He doesn't take away the personality and characteristics that He created in me, He does make me a better person. Jesus says, 'I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.' And it is that abundant life, that richness which we miss when Jesus is absent, that peace and joy which He brings where everything just looks and sounds so much better which makes me happy that I answered His call and allowed Him to transpose my life. Now I don't have to live every day in the same key.

T is for TRACTOR

I was full of good intentions. I was only thinking of others but maybe therein lay the problem. It was sometime in the afternoon, a dry, late summer day and we had been working sat silage since early morning. I knew the whole area well for it was only a short stroll from home, even though the land belonged to a good friend and relatively close neighbour and I was privileged to have a job for the whole of the long summer holidays from university. There were only three of us at work, myself, the boss and his foreman and we each had specific jobs. The foreman spent most of the day reversing a tractor and buck rake into the silo with loads of grass that I had deposited from the trailer which I brought regularly from the field. The boss drove the tractor that towed the forage harvester and a trailer which he filled and would then unhinge it to be collected by yours truly who would arrive with an empty trailer and leave it to be collected for filling by the boss. We were so automated that the only time anyone needed to disembark from their machine during the whole operation was when I had to attach or detach the hydraulic hose pipe that ran from the trailer to the tractor in order to make it tip up the grass. Once or twice in the past, I had completely forgotten to do this job and had been sprayed by a thick brown layer of oil as the hosepipe unattached itself! But over time, the whole process came naturally and was just part of a routine that you completed subconsciously each time. I suppose my main objective was to be as quick as I could in my journey from the field to silo and back again and to not have the boss waiting long to pick up another empty trailer. It was really all a matter of man and machine in harmony, knowing your tractor well and most of all, knowing how to get the maximum from it on each journey. It was a new version of a Massey Ferguson 135 with a nice square front splattered in red and black paint and although it was a strong workhorse, most of the time it was working at the maximum of its ability when pulling a large silage trailer load of grass up a steep hill and it never let me down.

As I said I was full of good intentions. I had just returned from the silo, emerged over the brow of the hill and ambled down the other side on to a flat piece of land, where the empty trailer had been deposited. As I waited for my next load to be left off, I moved out of the way, did a quick circle and came to rest half way down the slope. Soon the boss passed by, just beyond my empty trailer and unhitched my new load but as he did so, I noticed that the tail gate of his trailer was not properly closed. Quickly I jumped off my tractor and ran down the few yards to close it when I noticed him waving frantically at me and pointing over my shoulder. I just had time to turn round and see his lovely new Massey Ferguson 135 make contact with the side of the empty trailer that was directly in its line as it careered down the slope. As they say the more haste the less speed and I kept going over in my head if I had pulled on the hand brake but I just couldn't remember. The damage was considerable and I still can't recall whether or not I closed the tail gate on the other trailer, but I was truly sorry for my mistake. What I do remember was that the boss was very philosophical about the whole affair and my wage packet was still fully intact the next week, but I guess that's friends for you! Mind you, I had to drive around for the rest of the time on a tractor without a bonnet and it did pose some interesting questions for the neighbours.

Maybe that's a lesson for more than just me. Sometimes we do actually need to think about ourselves and not always about others and sometimes our good intentions mask problems that we just don't want to deal with. I don't mean to think of ourselves in a selfish sort of way but rather to examine ourselves before we start making plans to help others. To be honest I'm quite happy and capable of minding my own business so generally I don't expect anyone else to see the need to do that job for me. Jesus said 'Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother's eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?' I can find lots of problems with other people whom I know if I try hard enough, but I'm sure by the same token, they can see my faults as well and even if we can't see each other's shortcomings, I know God always sees them. Yet when I come to Him, sorry for my sinful nature, He is willing to forget all about these and not add them to my account and He never thinks any less of me, even when I let Him down. I guess that's what happens when your boss is also your friend.

T is for TRIBE

This year I discovered Bruce Parry. He's the guy who appears on the BBC, travelling to exotic places and those that are less so, to spend time with the people who live there and learn about their way of life. This is not by any means a quick overview of another world from a respectable distance for Parry becomes actively involved in the whole life of the community he visits, living as part of a family and therefore subject to all their customs, rituals and lifestyles. During his month with his new family, he begins to understand their culture, tries to learn the basics of their language and, because of his inoffensive and unobtrusive nature, is generally accepted into the group and by the time he is ready to leave, has formed strong personal bonds with people he had never previously seen. Understandably, his experiences of being a Royal Marine and also Officer in Charge of British Commando physical training have stood him in good stead for the rigours of the culture and lifestyle shocks that he discovers during his series. But it is not for the faint hearted.

In one of the recent episodes from the last series, his journey took him to the far corner of Brazil almost on the border with Peru where he joined the Matis tribe and during his stay had to endure the rituals of being injected with frog poison that made him violently sick, without the assurance of a casualty department close by, whipping and having a painful juice dropped into his eyes, being painted across his body with streaks of red plant dye, drinking a concoction made from a plant root and hunting for monkeys in trees using blowpipes that could be several metres long but kill silently.

On another trip, he became part of the Anuta tribe in the Polynesian islands and learnt the art of fishing in a boat that I wouldn't like to even sail on a pond and also snorkelling near the shore to catch fish. Of complete contrast was the Akie tribe in Africa that still survive as hunter-gatherers and where the word 'survival' is all that it portrays. During his visit here, he joined a hunt which lasted for over a week, during which time nothing was caught and the hunters had to do with little or no food, except for the honey that they collected from wild bee hives, high up in trees, returning with the stings to prove their bravery.

But in all the programmes I watched, there is another side to the life of these tribes, for many of them are finding it difficult to survive. Now, many of the younger members are being educated in towns, are beginning to crave material wealth and possessions and quite a few never return to the homeland, leaving the older generation to their cultures and rituals and effectively sounding the death knell of some of our worlds most primitive yet amazing societies.

Yet as I pause to reflect on this valuable insight to tribal life, I somehow don't see it so far removed from us as it may seem at first appearance. For aren't we all prone to tribal behaviour from time to time, especially here in our own province. Sometimes it's the football top or scarf that identifies our tribe, for others it might be the rugby jersey, but it can just as readily be the school tie, the clothes we wear, the haircut we display or the drugs we use that pigeon hole us into one particular group. And don't think, us Christians escape either, for the translation of our Bible, the Sunday suit, the size of a hat or the form of worship easily places each of us in a certain stereotype. Even as a teacher, I know that we are a tribe also, with our own little idiosyncrasies and common discussion themes. I was reminded last weekend, watching a documentary about San Quentin prison in USA that tribes always exist in such establishments but where the penalties for 'mingling' with another tribe can be much more physical and even result in death.

I suppose what really impresses me about Bruce Parry, however, is his willingness to befriend people, to meet them where they are and to learn about their life and existence, without wanting to change them, for people are important to him. There's a guy called Ronnie in our church a bit like that and though he's no Commando, he really likes people and loves to see them smile. I think that's because his faith in God has filled him with compassion for others and he only wishes the best for them.

Jacob or Israel as he became known was the father of twelve tribes and though his son, Joseph, is the most famous, it was the tribe of another son, Judah, that God chose to be the human ancestral line of Jesus. And He is interested in me just where I am and while he doesn't want to take away my individuality he does offer to me the chance to use that very characteristic in His service. There is no ritual involved, just an acknowledgement of my sinful past life, a belief in His salvation and a commitment to follow Him. And with God as its leader, this is one tribe that will never disappear!

T is for TURKEY

Farm animals have a rather pointless life in many ways. To exist purely to provide food for others is a very worthy cause but to have no input into why you exist is entirely another matter. At home we kept several different types of farm animals, ranging from those that existed on four feet to others that were quite happy with two legs and feathers. There were three small wooden houses or arks in the orchard closest to our house. Two of them, nestling among Victoria plum trees, sat facing each other about fifteen yards apart. Over the years, constant journeys between our back door and the arks had worn a path through the long grass and nettles that bordered both sides. They were both black in colour though one had been there long before I was and was in a worse state of repair but they were both homes to a small flock of hens and banties that spent the day roaming in the vicinity and often dropping their eggs in the most unlikely places. They were fed every day and their offerings collected and though they were expected to lay within the confines of their homes, it was not uncommon to find their oval produce under the boughs of a plum tree or at the base of a large nettle. The local wildlife hoods were also keenly aware of their presence and from time to time you would find an egg with the contents already consumed by a weasel or just the feathers after a trespassing fox had enjoyed a good meal. The third ark, much closer to the house, at least during daylight, was home to a few ducks that provided larger eggs and generally made a mess wherever they went. So most days of the year we could have had egg in one of its various guises for tea. However, there comes a time in every life when usefulness is not what it once was and so the need to diversify. In the case of the hens, banties and ducks their only diversification was to present themselves on the kitchen table instead of their eggs and unfortunately from time to time, that's exactly what happened.

The pigs didn't fare much better, however, generally we were spared the embarrassment of eating our own stock, since they were usually shipped off to market, no doubt eventually adorning some other dinner or breakfast table. On one occasion though, dad did decide to have one killed for home use and I remember well it being brought back home after the assassination to be cured. Sounds a bit of a contradiction in terms really! there was an awful lot of salt about that day as each piece was being preserved and I do have recollections of eating bacon, pork and the like for a long time afterwards though there is no doubt that its flavour far surpassed anything in you can buy in the supermarkets.

Cattle had a similar fate, eventually, and again none of dad's stock ever ended up as our Sunday roast, not that I'm aware of anyway, but at least some of them provided milk for the cereal and long before I was born, many of the neighbours, arrived on a daily basis to fill up their containers with the fresh white stuff. And while all three enterprises provided a regular income for the family, there is no doubt that the fate of all of them would be on a dinner plate sometime in the future. I guess you could call it sacrifice.

Which brings me neatly ( or otherwise) to the turkey, which we never kept on the farm, except hanging in its unfeathered state just before Christmas Day. My little pocket dictionary defines it as 'a large bird reared for food' and I suppose Christmas provides ample evidence to uphold that statement for no turkey farmer rears his flock for any other purpose except killing and preparing them for Christmas Day. Which remind me of the old joke that asks, 'How do you prepare a turkey for Christmas?' 'Tell them not to waste any money on presents this year.'

But to have the sole purpose in life to become food for others is, I suppose the ultimate sacrifice by an animal, for the turkey was born to die.

Jesus came to earth with only one purpose and that was to die and be the ultimate sacrifice for our sins. He was born to die and He didn't have an alternative for it was the only way that we could ever be reconciled to God. What makes this more wonderful is that God chose it that way, He made the decision, He knew exactly the day it would happen and nothing would ever change his mind, because He loved us. John sums it up so well when he writes 'This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins.' What a humbling thought that the God of all creation cared for me and was prepared to do something about it.

Every year another turkey gives up its life for our Christmas dinner. God's sacrifice was once and once only but I can feast on His goodness for ever.

T is for THUMB

I think it's all because of the cushions blog. Revenge has obviously been on her mind ever since. Two whole days have now passed since the 'incident' and I'm still suffering the pain, never mind the unsightly look of hardened blood where skin should be. At first I didn't realise there was anything wrong, though a slight stinging feeling on the top of my left thumb was clearly advanced notice of a serious situation developing. The blood was secondary but altogether more immediate in its effect.

I knew I should have ignored her pleas to come and help in the kitchen. After all she had just obtained a new gadget on a shopping trip and, extremely alien to most females, hadn't paid a penny for it. No talk of 'this was cheap in the sales' or 'it was only half price' or 'I've seen one of these in Marks and Spencers at three times the price.' No, this was what men would call a real bargain - completely free! My curiosity was overwhelming. And after all, she had stood still in Debenhams for almost fifteen minutes, without uttering a word or opening a purse while an 'expert' salesman had demonstrated the gadget in action. I now realise that the previous sentence contains three minor miracles so the wait must have been worth the sacrifice! Anyway, to cut to the chase, this so called 'gadget' looked pretty simple and ever so flimsy but wife was keen to show that it did what it said on the packet or at least what the demonstrator was able to do. It reminded me of numerous visits to Balmoral Show or the Ideal Home Exhibition where all manner of 'demonstrators' produced devices that were going to revolutionise a woman's life in the kitchen, whether she was slicing vegetables, pulping fruit, cleaning worktops and hobs or just sharpening knives. Not surprisingly, they all worked perfectly in the hands of the master but get them home and the apprentice was left wondering if she didn't need a quick refresher course on the basics.

Still, I digress. Back to the gadget in question. It consisted of two parts, a central piece about three centimetres long that tapered to a point above which rotated what can only be described as a miniature helicopter blade. The idea, according to my wife, though you understand I am now receiving the information second hand, was to plunge the tapered piece fully into a potato and then rotate the miniature helicopter blade, thus producing delightful spirals of potato that could be deep fried to produce a new variation on a theme. I realised that the absence of a deep fat fryer in the house was clearly not a deterrent but the first few attempts by the new owner produced nothing that remotely resembled the picture in her memory from earlier in the day. Having destroyed a complete tuber, help was summoned and it was clear that a pheonix needed to rise from the ashes of the free gift. Admittedly the initial attempt produced little success but the male human brain has wonderful powers of doggedness and persistence and it was then that I realised the need for a degree of downward pressure on the miniature helicopter blade as it rotated. Sure enough, the spirals began to unravel before our eyes, just about the same time as a strange stinging sensation in my thumb confirmed that a potato doesn't bleed. One glance at the top of my thumb indicated that it wasn't there and it wasn't hiding, but it was difficult to see just what was missing through the mass of red liquid exuding and congealing all at the same time. First aid was sent for, which amounted to two sticking plasters, one to secure the other. Have you ever tried to put a sticking plaster over the top of your thumb. It just wasn't made for that. Anyway, the spirals were admired for a few seconds, the gadget deemed a success and the whole potato mess consigned to the bin, a job well done and look at the money we saved! To be honest, the mark on the top of my thumb measures about two millimetres in diameter, bled for about twenty seconds, caused slight discomfort, but enough for any man to moan about for at least a good two weeks. What I have learned, however, is just how important my thumb is even though it is such a small part of the body and how many simple tasks are made more difficult by not having it in proper working order. Try turning a page, putting on a tie, fastening a belt, lifting a peanut (though this is not one of life's necessities, I grant you), tying shoelaces and I still haven't made it out of the bedroom!

It reminded me once again that every believer who is part of the body of Christ is important to Him and, regardless of how unimportant or menial we think our role might be, we have been put in that position for a purpose and that purpose might just involve somebody coming to a saving faith. Paul writes in his letter to the church in Rome, 'Just as each of us has one body with many members, and these members do not all have the same function, so in Christ we who are many form one body, and each member belongs to all the others.' And because we belong to each other and to our Father, if one part fails to function, the whole body can be affected. I might only be a thumb but I still have a unique print to leave.