F is for FORK

The name Thomas Coryate is not a name with which I am familiar, though he is generally credited with introducing the fork to England after seeing it used at the dining table in Italy during his travels around the beginning of the seventeenth century. It would appear that the Greeks were the first to introduce the idea of using forks, but then only as an aid to carving meat before it was eaten and mostly consisting of two large tines. Initial reaction in England was anything but encouraging for Coryate as most people felt it unnecessary to use a fork when God had given them hands but slowly the more wealthy came to adopt them as important implements for handling sticky foods or for berries that would otherwise have stained the fingers and very soon most rich families had invested in them as a symbol of their wealth and sophistication. And in time it was also realised that with only two times, too much food tended to slip through and never reach the mouth, thus the development of forks with three and four tines, much as we see them today. However there remained a large proportion of the population who continued to view this piece of cutlery as only for the effeminate.

I've been thinking a lot about forks recently, mainly because most of ours have disappeared. Often, we go to the cutlery drawer at dinner times to discover one section completely empty, yet the knife and spoon sections full to overflowing. It just doesn't make sense, mainly because we have always bought complete sets of cutlery so that, in theory, there should be the same number of forks as any other utensil. But no, apart from a few in the dishwasher, the whole place is bereft of forks and while we have not been reduced to pre-seventeenth century England table manners, there have been occasions when the temptation has arisen in the thoughts, but again quickly dispelled by rushing to the dishwasher for solace and of course a fork. And though we have made extensive searches in all the places you would expect and not expect to find forks in the house and outside, pursued hopeful lines of investigation with the two more junior members of the household who often prefer to eat using a fork without a knife and even kept a close eye on Whitie our cat, we are running up a blind alley. Recently I have found myself visiting hardware and fancy goods stores, places that are generally alien to me, and investigating the price of forks. though, to my utter disgust, I find that mostly they don't come separate from the rest of the cutlery set and we certainly don't need any more knives or spoons. In moments of extreme weakness, I have come to conclusions about their disappearance that range from the possible, i.e. they have been accidentally thrown in the bin or one of the boys has borrowed some for his house at university, to the unlikely, i.e. people we invite for dinner have been stealing them, to the downright ridiculous, i.e. a large mouse comes out of the attic when we are at school and drags them back to the top of the house where he is preparing a massive metal weapon with which to attack Whitie!Anyway, as they say, who needs a fork when God has given you fingers. And fingers taste better anyway!

AT home mum had a couple of forks that never made it near the table. One, she used to help her hold the Sunday roast or the Christmas turkey secure while she carved. The other, which had a cream coloured handle and three much wider and less sharp tines was the toasting fork which appeared most mornings and late evenings to hold loaf bread in front of the square opening of the Wellstood cooker where a bright orange fire was always burning and where the best toast was always made. There was a knack to using this fork, because if you pushed the tines too far through the slice of bread, the fork was too close to the fire and it was impossible to hold it there long enough for the bread to toast, but when the fork was only peeping though the other side, the bread could be browned without any lasting damage to the toaster's flesh. Yet while the fork was essential for that job, it was completely useless without the fire.

And just as God guided the Israelites by night using fire, when He saves us He baptizes us with the fire of the Holy Spirit to be our guide here on earth. And once His fire is within us we can do what He intended us to do in His greater plan. No wonder Paul says 'Do not put out the Spirit's fire.' for without the Spirit we are of no use in His work.

And just as there are many forks for different purposes such as serving, carving, toasting, dining, desserts, salad, steak and fish forks, so even though we are all different in some ways, each has a specific job to do for God and that is why we are made in the way we are, specially suited for His work. As Paul says 'In Christ we who are many form one body, and each member belongs to all the others. We have different gifts, according to the grace given us.' Yes, we may look different, speak with different languages and have different abilities but we are all part of that greater body of Christ, each with his own special job. Isn't it time we began serving Him and dining properly at His table?

F is for FASHION

The conversation went something like this. "You need a new suit dear." "I don't think so." "Yes you do. I think a black one would be nice." "But I have a suit." "Yes, but it's blue, not black and you really need a black one." "Why?" "Because you need a black one for funerals." "But I could wear my blue suit to a funeral. Sure that's what I have been doing." "Yes but a black suit looks better." "As if the deceased is going to notice!" "And you have other functions to go to as well." "And can't I wear my blue suit to those." "But dear you've had it for years and it's done." "What do you mean 'it's done,' there's not a mark on it and sure I only wear it the odd Sunday and for funerals or weddings and we haven't been to many weddings lately." "Yes but it's old and it IS done." "No it's not. It would do OK for another while." "Yes but it's an old style. They don't make suits like that these days." "What do you mean, 'old style' dear?" "Look, it's just not in fashion any more." " Oh I get it. So I need a new suit which is in fashion." "Yes and almost every man I know has a new suit." "Names and addresses?" And so it went on over the tea table for a while longer, though I had by this stage grasped the central theme of her argument and while I hadn't given in, I do know that the writing is on the wall for the old blue suit. Strangely enough though, if I kept it long enough, I'm sure it would be back in fashion again before too long.

Am I the only person who has lived through two eras of flares, shirts with button down collars, brogues, patterned ties, tank tops, side burns, shaved heads and sports jackets? And for the women it doesn't change either. One minute it's the mini skirt, then the midi skirt, to be replaced by the maxi and before long, the mini all over again. One year it's flat shoes, the next winter they're all wearing boots, in the summer flowery dresses, then out come the high heels, then the block heels and before long they're back in flat shoes again. Some seasons, purple is all the rage, other times everyone has to wear brown, then red makes a comeback, all the shops are full of green or everyone is ordering a little black dress. All in the name of fashion! And if you're in any doubt about what to wear, there are a host of magazines like Vogue, Elle or even a flick through OK or Hello and you soon see what today's fashionable woman or man is wearing.


And it's not just clothes. Ipods have become a fashion accessory just as much as a designer handbag, watch or belt and who wants to be seen on a beach in the south of France with a pair of cheap sunglasses from Woolworth. And sometimes, it's just having the right label on our clothes, the right colour of eye makeup or lipstick, the famous make of shoes on our feet, smelling expensively from a perfume bottle or grocery shopping at a trendy supermarket that makes us feel fashionable. And I have to admit, I often succumb to this whole fashion thing, for last year I bought a wallet simply because it had 'Valentino' emblazoned on the side, though such is my knowledge of all things fashionable, that I probably thought it was the name of a racehorse at the time!


I often wonder what women do when their clothes go out of fashion. I presume that they pack up all the 'old' stuff and ship it off to one of the charity shops, which means of course, that there must then be a lot of well dressed but unfashionable people out there and then when fashion experts notice the way they have combined different clothing items to make a new look, they then use that idea to create a 'new' fashion again. Wasn't it Coco Chanel who said, 'A fashion that does not reach the streets is not fashion.' So who am I to argue.


It's probably just as well for us men and indeed a lot of women, that some things never go out of fashion. Like jeans, white shirts, wellingtons, suits (though I don't wish to dwell on this one), trainers, track suits and socks. And other, more personal things too, like love, hatred, envy, anger, tears, lies, laughter, gossip, bad language, worry, people's rights, war, murder or theft. Since the fall of man, all these things have filled our beings and our streets. And you know, sometimes it can be even fashionable to be a Christian, to be part of the in crowd at church or Youth Club, but I wonder how many of us would find it so fashionable if we were to meet opposition to our faith, like those who live in countries where Christianity is not only intolerable but may carry the penalty of prison or death.


Jesus knew that it wouldn't be fashionable to follow Him when He said ' If the world hates you, keep in mind that it hated me first.' And also John reminds us that 'The world and its desires pass away, but the man who does the will of God lives forever.' Paul writes 'Be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is that good, and acceptable, and perfect, will of God.'


I end with those words of Coco Chanel ringing in my ears. ''A fashion that does not reach the streets is not fashion.' Has our Christianity reached the streets? Do we wear our faith on our sleeves or only bring it out on special occasions? Maybe that's why believing in Jesus has never been grasped by some people because they never see anyone showing it?

F is for FINGERS

Years ago, in the days of black and white television, mum loved nothing better than sitting down and watching a pianist who was all the rage at the time. His name was Russ Conway and he played everything with a boyish grin and a certain style that no other pianist could equal. Though he had probably achieved his greatest success by the time I was starting primary school, he still maintained a presence in the charts for quite a few years and was always a popular entertainer on television shows of the time. I still think that I could put my hand on a couple of seven inch singles in our old record collection at home that fully portrayed his talent. And he was always fun to watch, not least because of the missing fingertip on one of his hands, that he had lost while using a bread slicer!

It was a cold, frosty Saturday morning some time in late January. We had just travelled the fifty or so miles from home to Newtownards to play the local grammar school in a rugby game and because of injuries, I was playing only my second game for the 1st XV at scrum half at the tender age of fifteen. I remember the pitch well, beneath that magnificent monument of Scrabo Tower but I remember the lineout even more vividly. The ball sailed over the top, missing all the jumpers and as I ran to grab it, I never noticed an opposition jersey closing quickly on me. Just as my hands made contact with the oval ball so did a rugby boot except that it made more contact with a finger of my left hand. The pain was excruciating, no doubt worsened by the frostbite that had already invaded my digits, but I knew that it was more than just cold that was making me wince. Now here's the funny thing. I can't remember if I played on or came off at that time, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I might have completed the game. Anyway, the journey back and the weekend was pure misery and it was Monday before any hospital could XRay it,by which time all the painkillers and vinegar dressing that mum could sensibly give me had ceased to have any effect. By dinner time, I was in plaster, with my finger bent back into my palm and for the next few weeks, that's where it remained. I still carry the scar of the whole incident, most notably missing a knuckle on my left hand, but the hardest part was when the plaster came off and realising that my finger had to learn how to move all over again.

As I sat in Dundonald hospital with son, who had reached the same age as I had when the unfortunate finger incident occurred, I couldn't help feeling a certain sense of deja vu. This time it wasn't a rugby ball or boot, but a cricket ball that had caused the damage, as he attempted to keep wicket for the school team. What made it worse was the fact that it had happened before to exactly the same finger in the same sport and my immediate concern was that a permanent weakness might have developed. But medical help has progressed sufficiently since my injury and he was able to make a full recovery without any lasting damage. Still, as I watch him grow up and see his interest in the guitar develop just like mine did, I notice that he has much longer fingers than God blessed me with but also that, like his dad, the fingernails on his left hand are very short while those on his right paw are long. Like father, like son!

And that reminds me that while I thank God for both my sons I have so much else to remember when I pray to Him. It's best illustrated by a story a local minister told to our children in assembly a few weeks ago. This is what he said. When we pray our thumbs remind us to thank Him for His goodness to us including His Son. Our pointing finger reminds us to pray for those who pint the way for us, people such as teachers, ministers and our mums and dads. The long finger, taller than the rest, tells us to pray for those who are leaders, both nationally in our government and also in our organisation, while the next finger, regarded to be the weakest one of all, reminds us to pray for those who are in need, the poor and those who are suffering. Finally the little finger at the end teaches us to pray for ourselves last, but at the same time to remember that God still wants to hear about our worries and troubles. And as Paul says, 'Pray without ceasing.' You know it's never to late to count on your fingers to get you through your prayer time.

F is for FENCE

Dad loved fencing. I think there was probably no job around the farm that he enjoyed as much as heading off in the car with a boot full of fencing posts, a roll of barbed wire, a sledge hammer, a claw hammer, a pitchfork,a billhook, a bow saw and a pocket full of large staples. He could spend a whole day out in the fields, just walking along the perimeter hedges and looking for gaps that needed mending. Sometimes the easiest and most successful method was simply to cut down a few branches of blackthorn bush and push them into the space that needed fixing, for there were very few animals, except the most persistent escapees that would even consider tackling such a thorny issue. Often he would only need the barbed wire, hammer and staples to bridge the gap and he had this technique of being able to complete the job all on his own without needing any assistance . Usually it involved two hammers, one that he used to tighten the wire around a tree and then holding this firmly, he would use the other hammer to bang home a staple, just behind the barb, so that the wire couldn't slip. Many times too, when I was helping him, I saw him take off his flat cap, that he was rarely seen without, and fold it around the wire before pulling it tight with his hands, no mean feat on its own. On the more rare occasions when he needed the fence posts, I watched in admiration and with no little envy at his strength as he plunged the sledge hammer down on top of the wooden structure and saw it move into the ground several inches with each blow. When I was much younger, I remember watching him in the distant fields and seeing this lone figure pounding away at a fence post and hearing the dull thud a fraction of a second after the visual. As a result of his efforts, few of our cattle ever broke out and I think it said a lot about his attitude towards his neighbours in that he respected them and their property and would have been annoyed if any damage had been incurred because of his negligence.

After we were married and built our house, he was the one who helped to erect our wooden fence and, along with another local workman, spent painstaking days getting the angles and elevations just right so that the fence looked as well as possible after completion. It is a testament to him that twenty five years later, it is still standing and looks as good as the time it was built. However, a few times, its durability and my patience have been tested to the limit. On more than one occasion, cattle belonging to farmers who don't exhibit the same respect for their neighbours as dad always did and for whom fencing is neither a priority nor a necessity, have appeared on our front lawn. In an effort to remove their cattle sensing the damage that they might cause, the individuals in question have succeeded in causing more mayhem that they thought. Anyone knows that a large bullock will always leave deeper marks on a soft lawn when being chased than when walking and of course will always try and vault a wooden fence if pursued in that direction. Unfortunately, overweight cattle and vaulting should never be used in the same sentence and maybe a more appropriate word would be bludgeoning, for that's what has happened on at least two occasions and I have the patched up fence boards to prove it.

However, most people would not imagine that a Volkswagen could bludgeon its way through such a fence, from the inside but I have proof that it can. Wife and I were standing at the kitchen window, finishing the last of the tea dishes one evening, when our Golf drove past outside. This was unexpected as both its drivers were watching it at the time, from inside the house and as it rolled down the drive, I rushed out, only to see it narrowly avoid a large Weeping Willow, take a sidewards glance at a weeping, if somewhat startled owner and continue towards our hedge of fir trees. At which point it made a sharp right turn, persuaded by the conglomeration of branches and advanced rather quickly in the direction of the aforementioned fence. Being slightly heavier than the average bullock, it met little resistance and eventually came to a halt just as it closed in on the other fence at the opposite side of the lane. Even though the damage was minimal, nobody was willing to take the blame but let's just say if it had happened in class, I might have given out one hundred lines saying, 'I must use the handbrake properly.'

Last summer, despite the fence looking in good condition, I discovered that several of the vertical posts had rotted away underground and would have to be replaced. The first indication was when part of the fence began to list slightly to one side and the workman who fixed it for me, indicated that if I hadn't taken action, part of it would have fallen in a short time. It does make me think about my own spiritual life and how easy it is to let the rot set in but how long it can be before there are any visible signs. Little things, like skipping church, missing the odd quiet time, spending less time with God, not praying as much as I should, being more liberal than I once was, embracing every new faith, doctrine or religion, being influenced by those for whom God is not important. And it's funny because, our papers are more full of stories about man's rights rather than God's rights, about despite what is written in the Bible, we should remember that times have changed and we need to move with the times and interpret the Bible differently. Yet God has not changed and all the intelligent mind of this world put together don't even come close to matching His wisdom and intellect. It's all about having the right foundation for as Paul says, 'No one can lay any foundation other than the one already laid, which is Jesus Christ' and then making sure that we don't neglect it. Remember the fence. It's not what you see that always counts.

F is for FAILURE

I have said hello to failure many times in my life. Some times it was at school when exam results appeared, often it was on the rugby field either personally when I missed a kick, a tackle or threw a bad pass or just made the wrong decision and also collectively when, despite the best efforts of our team on the day, the result didn't go our way. A couple of years after leaving school, I found myself facing relegation with our club and even though we made every effort and always held out every hope of avoiding the drop, nevertheless it happened. I have been in dressing rooms during those experiences and when we have lost cup finals or league play-offs, when you just sit in your kit and stare into space wondering what might have been and I tell you it's not a happy time. I have watched my old school fail to win the cup on many occasions and understand their dejection and I have seen my own son suffer the same fate as I have on many dark days.

I have sat with parents when their children have failed to obtain the necessary grade for entry to their chosen school and I have watched the visual disappointment as they resign themselves to a different route for their son or daughter. I have seen my own children fail at different things, just like I did once and I know the sadness they feel at the time. I have watched athletes fail in their attempts to win medals, after years of training, I have known players failing to realise their potential in football, rugby and other sports , interviewed people for jobs who fail to grasp the position and met people whom I knew from many years ago who have had many failures and disappointments along the way.

However, no longer is it politically correct to talk about failure in school. Now we talk about deferred success. Can you believe it? Just in case we damage the mentality or psychological makeup of an individual for ever. So now we have to think about using the 'two wishes and a star' method to mark pupil work, where we always find two positive things to write about their efforts and one thing that they could improve upon. Nor are we meant to use an X when they fail to get something right and in our local education system, the powers that be don't want children to be selected on academic ability any more, because nobody must be a failure. Why, they even make the exams easier so that everyone is successful. Which doesn't exactly fill me with confidence, when I think what our future teachers, doctors, solicitors and a host of other professions are going to be like when success does not truly indicate ability. It's all about being politically correct, not hurting anybody's feelings, making everyone equal but it's not really very scriptural at the end of the day.

I look back at my failures and those of other people I know and while it was uncomfortable and distressing at the time, I learned from each situation and it gave me valuable experience that helped me to achieve later on. Failure in exams made me prepare more thoroughly, failure in rugby made me analyse my game, failure to find the right chord in a song made me search until I discovered it, failure to explain a problem to a pupil made me look for other ways to help them understand, failure to obey the road laws made me more careful in future and failure to live up to the high standards God sets for me makes me more determined to not fail the next time.

And even the great men of the Bible failed sometimes in their faith, men like Noah to whom God entrusted the survival of the human world and its living things, yet whose drunkenness caused him to act immorally, like David who trusted God to help him slay a giant and rule a country but whose eyes lingered too long on another woman and caused him to commit adultery and kill. Like Paul, who though sincerely religious, found himself to be sincerely wrong, like Samson who failed to see the dangers in cavorting with the enemy until it robbed him of his greatest asset. Like Jonah who simply failed to obey God's call, Peter who promised undying support and wasn't there just when it was most needed, Samuel who was so busy doing God's work that he forgot he had a family to raise for God too. Yet through all their failures they learned something about life that helped them to be even better people for God. I guess it's all about recognising your failure for what it is, knowing the cause and addressing it so that next time your response is different.

And yet it is so good to know that even when we do fail God in our daily walk through our words, actions or thoughts, He is always there to forgive us and forget the times when we haven't lived up to His high standards. And I constantly live in the knowledge that, as Paul says in his writings to the Philippians, 'I can do everything through him who gives me strength.' And because of this , 'I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.' Don't fail to remember that.

F is for FAMOUS

Somehow the talk in class got around to McDonald's and I was pointing out to everybody that there are few places on earth that you can travel where people haven't heard of the fast food giant and of course the same applies to Coca Cola. They're famous just about everywhere. And I suppose there are a select band of human beings who have similar fame across the world, some for good reasons, others for the bad memories they create, people in my lifetime like the Queen of England, Nelson Mandela, the Pope, George Bush, Margaret Thatcher, Hitler, Winston Churchill, Saddam Hussein, Fidel Castro, Gandhi, Gaddafi, Mao Tse-Tung, JF Kennedy, Archbishop Tutu, Khrushchev, Nasser, Sharon, Tony Blair, Pompidou, De Valera, Peron and even Ian Paisley. I'll leave you to decide the good and the bad!

And if you go beyond the confines of politics, there have been famous people in almost all walks of life. Names in sport such as Pele, Bjorn Borg, Lester Piggot, Muhammad Ali, Michael Schumacher, Carl Lewis, Mark Spitz, Steve Redgrave, Barry Sheene, Harvey Smith, Tiger Woods, Gary Sobers and Jonah Lomu to mention only a few. Inventors like Edison, Baird, Davey, Benz, Gates, Biro and Dunlop, scientists including Pasteur, Fleming, Lister, Darwin, Einstein, Jenner and Curie. Ordinary people who have done extraordinary things, like Sir Edmund Hillary, Mother Teresa, Florence Nightingale, William Shakespeare, Charles Dickens, Christopher Columbus, David Livingstone, Neil Armstrong and Ellen Macarthur. We have even animals that are famous such as Red Rum, Lassie, Clarence the cross-eyed lion, Chi Chi the Panda and lest we forget, Shergar.

Of course fame is not always universal and while the majority of Americans will never have heard of Ryan Giggs, Steven Gerrard or Frank Lampard, I guess I would struggle to name any of the stars of baseball, basketball or American Football, yet they are household names in their own backyard. So while fame may follow you in your own locality it can be a strange phenomenon to discover that in different company you can be the least famous of all in the gathering. How humbling that must be. I've never been that close to anyone really famous though President Clinton's helicopter did fly over our house during his first visit to our province and I do recall on one visit to Boston, a good few years ago, waiting for a couple of hours to see him pass by in his armour plated limo as he left a local hotel and I'm not alone in having stood at the gates of Buckingham Palace hoping for a glimpse of the Queen or a lesser Royal, even though they were all probably on holiday in Scotland. And isn't that what often attracts us to go to concerts, just to see a famous person 'in the flesh' even though they will probably sound a lot better on the CD in the living room.

So why do so many people crave fame? Our televisions are now filled by ordinary people with a story to tell, a questionable talent to exhibit or some other characteristic, either natural or constructed, in the hope that they will become famous. We have X Factor, Dancing on Ice, Joseph, Sound of Music, Pop Idol, Big Brother, Wife Swap to name but a few of the more common and it seems that the more outrageous or less talented a person is, the greater chance they have of actually becoming a 'celebrity'. Why even the 'celebrities' whose crowns have faded and who are clearly not on anyone's A, B or C list aren't averse to one last effort at stardom in the variety of programmes such as Celebrity Big Brother and I'm a Celebrity - get me out of here. How necessary it seems that so many need to fill the void in their life with the adulation of others and the financial rewards that it appears to bring. Yet most of those who acquired fame through genuine exploits and talent, prefer to live in relative anonymity and rarely court publicity. And many others discover that fame brings with it a responsibility to the public who believe that such people, because they crave notoriety, do not have a right to privacy.

Jesus is famous throughout the world. That was always His intention when he uttered the command to his followers, saying 'Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature.' That same command is true today and because it is not His will that any should perish, then it is our job, as believers, to tell everyone about Him and His salvation. Many have suffered persecution, banishment and even death in their efforts to tell others and there are still many who have not heard of His name, while an increasing multitude of people have forgotten about Him. The great difference between Jesus and all the others whom I have mentioned is that unlike most famous people, He knows everybody who knows Him and He never forgets them. That's why He tells us 'I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.' That's one famous person you can talk to every day.

F is for FRIDAY

It might just be my favourite day of the week, though probably for all the wrong reasons, but there is a certain carefree spirit that tends to invade my consciousness on the last day of the working week, that no amount of coaxing will remove. I think actually it plants itself sometime on Thursday afternoon at about three o'clock and refuses to budge until I'm going down Friday's hill so fast that I don't realise Monday's truck is coming straight towards me and we're going to collide with one almighty thump in a smash where I am clearly going to come off worst. For many though, Friday has become the new Saturday, with lots of workers now choosing to finish early or not even work at all on that day so essentially their weekend must start on Thursday and of course preparation for that must begin somewhere on Wednesday night! I digress.

At home, Friday was always a fairly straightforward day with dad off to Armagh and the local cattle market and then every second week when it was finished or when there were no more animals that he fancied buying, it was off for the fortnightly cattle sale in Keady, just a few miles further south. In either case, the car always pulled into the yard without a sound, such was his love of freewheeling the last hundred yards down to home, some time around four o'clock and he would come into the house with a nice roast of meat wrapped in brown paper that was tied with white cord and a bundle of papers that included the Weekly News, Ulster Gazette and a comic each for me and big sister. The Weekly News of Scottish origin, I think, but it was unique among newspapers for it never carried news that you could find in any other paper, with all the items being either obscure or of Scottish origin, not that there is any connection between the two, you understand. (Since our school secretary is Scottish, so I don't wish to offend, though she does know some rather obscure things, so maybe she reads it too). Anyway, the bit I liked best was always the joke page and also the sports section where you could see who would be the opposition for your footie team that Saturday. This of course was in the days before teletext and all manner of publications that kept you better informed. After tea, it was off to Christian Endeavour at church for an hour or so, maybe fit in any homework that needed to be completed for Monday and catch the late film before the whole sheebang closed down for the night.

At college, Friday was the day for going home and agian that old carefree mentality was well in place long before the last lecture or practical session was completed. Indeed, I remember well having to endure a dogfish dissection for something like six weeks, every Friday afternoon, with each session exploring a different area of the dreadful creature's anatomy, but the drawback was that it was the same dogfish every week, so by the fourth week, despite the preservatives, that tended to not only remove your sense of smell but also your nostrils and reason to live, there was a clearly developing, unacceptable odour emanating from what remained inside after I had completed another hoking session with a sharp scalpel. So an early afternoon train journey was much more appealing than three hours peering into an empty and offended dogfish and a late evening, packed train load of passengers staring suspiciously out of the corners of their eyes at the strange smelling person in the dufflecoat who looked like he had just been handling a dead body, which of course I was.

Friday was also the day when you started preparing for the big game on Saturday, so it was usually early to bed, a good sleep with the boots well cleaned and the kit ready for action. Yet there were many Friday nights when things weren't so routine and often I found myself crawling into bed in the early hours after a band engagement and knowing that from somewhere I would have to muster the energy for a couple of hours the next day.

These days at school, Friday is Ministers' day when a collared gentleman comes to speak to the children in Assembly which is probably ideal preparation for them before their Friday test and the day ends with an hour of Art and a chance to chat about anything but Maths and English. And then there's Black Friday, that commemorates different happenings occurring on that day of the week, or in our province, Bloody Friday, when over twenty terrorist bombs exploded with loss of life and injuries druing the Troubles, Friday the thirteenth with all its superstitions and even Man Friday who helped Robinson Crusoe survive.

But most of all there's Good Friday, the day when we remember the death of Jesus on a cross as He made the ultimate sacrifice for our sins. It's a day of sadness and gloom but only temporarily as His resurrection once and for all triumphed over the power of death and satan. And as we once again approach that very special Friday, we remember, as Paul told the church at Corinth, 'The message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God.' And that's the only message hat I leave with you this Friday.

F is for FEBRUARY

February, the shortest month of the year, even with its extra day and, quite frankly, only a stopping off point between the savages of winter and the first lights of a new spring. A bit of a non event, in fact, a month just to get out of the way and move on. A time when we almost stand still and just allow it to pass by before our eyes, but certainly not a memorable time or one to get too excited about. And anyway, nothing much ever happens in February. Or so I thought. Then I was drawn to a website that I often use when we are looking at special events that have happened on a particular day of the year and as I browsed through the happenings of today, I was attracted to yesterday and the day before and further back and forward until I had covered the whole month and suddenly realised that maybe it wasn’t such a quiet month down the years as I had envisaged. So here’s a selection of what February is famous for.

This was the month when TV detector vans took to the street for the first time and when the halfpenny appeared for the last time. When Nottingham Forest paid the first million pounds for a footballer and almost a whole team were killed in the Munich air disaster. When a plane also claimed the life of Buddy Holly and Sid Vicious lost his battle with drugs. When Charles became engaged to marry Diana and some years later asked Camilla the same question. When miners went on strike against Mrs. Thatcher and the IRA bombs struck in Aldershot, London, the Docklands, on a coach full of soldiers and kids and many times in Northern Ireland. When Russia’s MIR space station left earth and the Columbia shuttle exploded on its attempted return. When man played golf on the moon and the Beatles played for the first time in America. When John Glenn became the first American in space and Dolly the Sheep became the first cloned animal.

February was also the month when Princess Elizabeth became Queen and also buried her father, King George VI, when South Africa announced an end to apartheid and Nelson Mandela walked free from prison for the first time in thirty years. It was the month when Cassius Clay first became a professional boxing world champion and John Curry, Torville and Dean also boasted world success on ice. Also this month the hunting ban came into force and Foot and Mouth arrived with such force. When at last Britain became a decimal country and a big freeze reminded us that winter was far from over. It was a time when names, some famous and some always remembered would go down in history for a variety of reasons, like Malcolm X, Olof Palme, Prime Minister of Sweden, Jamie Bulger, Salman Rushdie, Stephen Lawrence, Fidel Castro, Saddam Hussein. It was a month when unrest would happen in places as diverse as Paris, Cyprus, Afghanistan, Iraq, Iwo Jima, Russia, Hebron, Morocco, New York, Kosovo, Beirut, Dresden, Baghdad, Assam, Spain and Belfast.

February is also the month that we remember in school, for strangely, and I suppose coincidentally, three of us have known bereavement to arrive on the twenty second day, though in different years and another will lay her dad to rest on that very date this year. So after all February is a month to remember and to reminisce and not always for the right reasons or even for the happiest of moments and I realise that we are not alone in our remembrances as others also recall something that makes the shortest month stick in their minds. Yet God remembers every single detail of our lives and as we reach these important anniversaries each year, He is there to comfort us through it all. How comforting then to also know that if we seek His salvation and repent of our sins He is just as willing to forget all those details of our lives that we would rather He didn't remember. As Paul writes in Hebrews 'For I will forgive their wickedness and will remember their sins no more.' I'm glad that even though I remember many of the things I've mentioned , God doesn't remember anything about my sinful past when He forgives me. Still, roll on March.

F is for FLYING

I'm not a particular fan of small planes nor any plane with propellers so when a small plane has a propeller at the front or one on each wing, I'm not the most comfortable of travellers, especially when I can see the pilot in his cockpit from my seat and have a grandstand view of all his controls. And even though it was a small plane, we still managed to have a hostess whose job it was to attend the forty or so passengers during their flight across the Irish Sea to the south of England. This was my first time out of Belfast City airport and though I had flown many times before, I can't say that I love it or hate. Perhaps I just tolerate it but mum, who was sitting next to me had probably only flown once before, in the relative comfort and security of a large passenger jet into Heathrow. So when the pilot produced a large flask from behind his seat and told the hostess to serve the afternoon coffee on the flight, I think we both found it slightly disconcerting. Of course we were already more than a bit anxious as the storm brewing over the city on that day produced hurricane like winds that seemed to be throwing our little plane about at will. It seemed to take an age just to get off the ground and up to a sensible height where the gales had less impact. I can't say I enjoyed the experience but the staff were always helpful and I know the pilot was more experienced in these conditions than I could possibly imagine so generally the flight was more or less without incident.

I didn't imagine that I would ever see the need to get into a small plane again but unfortunately, a few years later I was to find myself in an even tinier contraption with room for only about twenty passengers and where all of our hand luggage sat beneath our feet, due to the lack of overhead lockers. It was a short journey, from Johannesburg to the town of Nelspruit, our 'drop off' point for Kruger National Park, though I guess the term 'drop off' could have been very appropriate. And while our time in the air was minimal, the view was breathtaking as we circled the hills and valleys and suddenly there appeared a runway up ahead and a gentle landing. But the flight was more memorable for the acquaintance we had made with another passenger, an Englishman, who spent most of his time in the bush and whose job was to be a guide for those who wanted to do a spot of game hunting and could afford his rather expensive hire charge. Still, he was a busy man for most of the season and I suppose when you take into account that not only was he guide but also protector for people who were more used to living in the suburbs of an English city, then it was money well spent. Yet during the flight, I could never come to terms with the several long flight cases full of a variety of guns and other weapons that lay at his feet and along the central aisle during our journey. What if he was a maniac or mass murderer? Apart from my innermost thoughts and, as I discovered, the similar thoughts of my companions, the flight was generally without incident.

We were on our way from New York down to Florida long before the days of 9/11, when security was less intense and probably less needed. The flight itself was less than half full and it was a bit of a novel experience being able to choose almost any seat on the plane without the restrictions of a neighbour's elbows or shoulders. And with so little to do, the air host even had the time to perch himself on the arm of a seat and chat to us for part of the flight. But the most memorable thing about the journey was another acquaintance we made on the way down south, with an older gentleman who had worked Cape Kennedy during the whole of the Apollo Space Mission programme and who knew all the famous astronauts on first name terms. After his retirement, he had spent his latter years helping out at Sea World, so when we arrived one morning at our hotel reception and discovered that he had left free tickets for the park, we were overjoyed and amazed at his generosity. During our conversations he talked much about Ireland and wanted to go there but his wife wouldn't fly so he only knew it from afar. So that autumn, we parcelled up some books with vivid pictures and photographs of the Emerald Isle and sent them off to his address as a way of showing our appreciation for his kindness. But he wasn't finished yet and shortly before Christmas that year a large wooden box of Florida oranges arrived direct from the other side of the world, courtesy of the man who knew the men on the the moon.

Some time later we were again coming in to land at Chicago airport. The plane had almost reached the ground , for the buildings were already at eye level with the porthole where I was seated when suddenly we took off into the sky again and circled for the next fifteen minutes, Eventually the Captain spoke to explain that the change of plan had been caused by another plane veering on to the runway where we were about to land and only for his evasive action might have caused a serious accident. The subsequent landing, though not without anxious thoughts, passed off without incident.

Isn't it great to know that our journey through life doesn't have to be always a struggle and that there are always fellow believers looking out to help us either directly or through their prayers. And isn't it even better to know that we have a shepherd who is not only our guide but also our protector and even when we do struggle, He is still there and more importantly has suffered more than we will ever have to, so He knows exactly what our struggles are. A friend recently told us that his granny's favourite song was 'There's not a friend like the lowly Jesus' and I love the chorus in it which says 'Jesus knows all about our struggles, He will guide till the day is done.' What comfort that is to each of us that He already sees the road ahead and helps us to deal with the challenges both good and not so good that come our way. As the old hymn says, 'Jesus Saviour, pilot me.'

F is for FOOD

Here are three true stories about food. I hope they please your palate as much as your favourite meal.

It was a cold, yet pleasantly fresh evening. The long winter nights were beginning to disappear to be replaced by simmering sunsets and dreams of light evenings and colourful flowers. Still it was amazingly mild for the time of year and despite the chill in the air, the days had been warm and filled with sunshine more associated with a late spring afternoon. And it was Valentine's Day. That day when one shows their unrequited love for their partner and expects it in return. There were no special bouquets of flowers, no dozen red roses, not even a special heart shaped box of chocolates or a card covered in hearts. No , this night would be all about a special meal in our favourite city restaurant. We arrived in adequate time and were shown to our table, admiring the added decor of pink, silver and red helium-filled balloons that decorated the space above where we walked. There was an atmosphere of love in the air and a plethora of empty seats. We studied the menu, presented on a specially prepared card covered with hearts in the colours of love and made our choice, though it wasn't difficult, as this was a special set menu for everyone in the restaurant, so the only real decision to make was which of the two soups on offer would best warm our insides. The meal was delicious, a mixture of oriental flavours that exploded on the tongue and warmed the heart, exactly like all good Valentine meals should. But not everyone was so happy with the restrictions of a set menu and very little choice.. During the couple of hours that we spent in the company of the delicate and subtle flavours of the Far East, at least half a dozen couples chose to return to the evening air without partaking of the delicate offerings on display. Most of them had sat for at least fifteen minutes, many with drinks already ordered and some even with starters consumed, before they decided to seek sustenance elsewhere. Others who didn't leave, mumbled their displeasure to the waiters through false smiles but decided to stick it out, though their enjoyment was clearly impaired. And through it all, the servants were perfect hosts and perfectly calm.

The other day we watched a cormorant, that majestic of birds, float on the reflections of the sun as we sipped a coffee and saw the world from a different point of view. Several times it disappeared beneath the surface of the shimmering, yet still water, only to re-emerge with another silvery reflection gripped tightly in its beak and very much alive. For a while, there appeared to be a struggle as the sun sparkled on the rapidly moving object in its mouth but then with head held high towards the clear blue overhead, the fish rapidly disappeared and breakfast was over. For a short while there was little commotion and the ripples on the surface once more became a mirror. Until, that is, our graceful friend decided on dessert and so disappeared once more into the darkness below. This time the submersion was longer than expected but eventually, some feet upstream he appeared again, complete with a swishing silvery object. This distraction on the water aroused the curiosity of two seagulls which came to investigate and spotted the fresh food on display. Within seconds their report had brought reinforcements to the scene and before long at least twenty seagulls were diving perilously close to the cormorant for a better view and the hope of a free meal for which they didn't have to work. Several times he plunged below, taking his catch with him, only to find the avian posse still circling and when one of the outlaws almost snatched his well earned prey on a particularly close dive, he took action, tilted his head back and swallowed their hopes in one enormous gulp. Within seconds the potential thieves became disinterested, returned to their resting place and we went back to our coffee.

Recently I bought a large, fresh, white loaf. It was the sort my mum used to buy from the breadman years ago, when he stopped at our house, the type you have to slice often resulting in slices thicker than expected or else wafer thin, but rarely the same width all the way down. I knew it would go down well with our battered fish for tea but the whole thing rested uneasily on my shoulders. After all, in our drive to get our bodies fitter and our minds fresher, we had just spent the previous hour on a long brisk walk in our local park, the same thing we try to do every day and here we were, undoing all the good work, because the temptation was too much to resist. But it was still enjoyable! And anyway, fish and loaves were good enough for a miracle

So what have I learned. Sometimes we reject God's plan for our lives and want it to fit in with our own plans. It's enough to make us walk away immediately but some of us stay for a while and then give up. Either way, we should have known that we lose control of our own lives when we hand them over to Him. 'For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways," declares the Lord.' (Isaiah 55:8). But He never stops smiling. Other times we want what He has given to others without realising that God knows exactly what we need and what is best for us. 'And my God will meet all your needs according to his glorious riches in Christ Jesus.' (Philippians 4:19). And how often, just when we think that we have got it all sorted and we're stronger than we've ever been in our faith, satan is waiting just around the corner, more enticing than ever. 'Watch ye and pray, lest ye enter into temptation. The spirit truly is ready, but the flesh is weak.' (Mark 14:38) Feed on these things.

D is for DISCIPLE

So which disciple made the greatest impact on you. Probably not Simon the Caananite or indeed Thaddeus nor even James the son of Alphaeus. And most of us only remember Thomas because he was better known, when I was at Sunday school, as 'Doubting Thomas'. Yet he was also quite a vocal member of the group and on several occasions made his voice heard especially when, at the Last Supper, he said to Jesus, 'Lord, we don't know where you are going, so how can we know the way?' And this from a man who had spent most of his previous three years with the Master. I think to call him 'Doubting Thomas' is slightly unfair because who among us hasn't had our doubts at some point in our faith history, but better to remember him as 'Thomas the Believer' who, when he had seen the resurrected Christ, proclaimed 'My Lord and my God.'

And what of Matthew, the man from the Inland Revenue, who, if he was following the example of most other tax collectors at the time, was probably lining his pockets with people's hard earned wages which they thought was all going to pay their taxes to the government. Hardly the sort of person you would enlist to help you run a charity event or to raise money for a new church roof. Philip, living in the same town of Bethsaida as Andrew and his brother and possibly knowing them as two of the fishermen down at the port but no indication that they knew each other beyond this acquaintance. Yet he was the fifth named disciple and probably best remembered for initially introducing Bartholomew to Jesus and then for missionary work he carried out in Samaria after Jesus went back to heaven, including many miracles that he performed and the conversion of an important Ethiopian from the palace of Queen Candace . I wonder what impact that conversion had on the royal household?

Or maybe you remember Bartholomew, also called Nathaniel, whose initial reaction to Philip's invitation to meet the Messiah should be 'Can anything good come out of Nazareth.' Yet his scepticism is quickly dissolved when he meets the Son of God, who talks of him as 'one in whom there is no deceit.' And certainly Judas leaves an impact on all of us as the disciple who spent so long in the company of Jesus and yet was willing to betray Him for silver, though the instant gain of wealth could never rid him of the guilt he felt at such an act and ultimately would cause his premature death.

I suppose for most of us, the disciples who come most easily to mind are the two sets of brothers, James and John and of course Andrew and Peter, all men who fished for a living. And while James, along with his brother was the first disciple to be called to follow Jesus, it would be John who would hold a special place 'as the disciple whom Jesus loved' and who, sometimes along with Peter and James, would witness many important events, including the Transfiguration, the Passover preparation, Gethsemane on that fateful night, the Crucifixion, the empty tomb and of course most of Jesus' miracles and parables. And then there is Andrew, most notable for being Peter's brother but it should never be forgotten that it was he who brought Peter to Jesus in the first place. Peter, that rock, that follower of no fear, the one who walked on the water, who cut off an ear in the garden, who denied Jesus and fled and who would return again to the tomb, witness the folded grave clothes and on seeing his Saviour risen would become one of the greatest missionaries the world has ever seen.

The word disciple interests me, for while it conveys a sense of someone being a pupil or a learner from another, it also embraces the idea of a person not only learning but also believing and helping to spread those teachings to a wider audience. Clearly Jesus had great faith in the twelve people he picked, to learn from Him and then to take His message into the world. Clearly too, background or social class didn't enter the equation, nor did position in the community, family ties, education or level of wealth. Probably, He knew that those things might hinder anyone from being a true disciple. And I suppose when He looks for disciples today, He needs those who are as ready and willing to leave all and follow Him, no questions asked and no turning back. What are we? Pupils or disciples? I've thought about all the disciples and I've plumped for Thaddeus. He seems to have been a level headed guy, who just seemed to get on with the job and because we're not really told anything about Him, doesn't mean that he wasn't busy at His Lord's work. And at the end of the day, Jesus was happy with Him and I guess that's all that matters. And you know, I'd have been quite happy to be a Thaddeus, just to be that close to God.

D is for DOCTOR

For a period in my life, I viewed doctors at best with suspicion and at worst with a degree of scepticism and a certain fear. Maybe it was the fact they were the men in the white coats who always seemed to carry a big black briefcase full of injection needles, little bottles and a stethoscope. Maybe it was also something to do with the fact that our own doctor never wore a white coat, but usually a sports jacket and while he was a very affable character, he wore these silver spectacles that seemed to allow him to view your inner soul as well as your sore throat. Maybe it was also because one day he died and I began to think if he couldn't cure himself, how could he possibly cure me. Maybe my blinkered view was also affected because I knew some guys at school who chose medicine for their careers and I wouldn't have left myself in their care, based on their track record beyond academia. Maybe too because one of our rugby team, who was a doctor, in the middle of a match, diagnosed a sore arm suffered by one of our perpetual rest takers as nothing more than the inflicted seeking an extra few minutes to recharge his lungs, only to discover that by the beginning of the next week, the whole arm was encased in plaster as the result of a break. And maybe I reached my conclusions because a doctor once chose to ignore my symptoms of tiredness and lethargy as nothing more than stress and prescribed a course of Valium. Talk about creating anxiety!

Anyway, for whatever reason , I remained unconvinced, though this was probably an individual thing rather than a blanket condemnation of the medical profession. In the past few years, however, I have come to appreciate the difficult job they have to do, not least of which involves breaking unwelcome news to patients and relatives. And sometimes they have to make an immediate diagnosis that can be the difference between life and death. I have also become more aware that not all doctors have the same skills nor can all do the same jobs but the beauty of the system is that when they need a second opinion or realise that a patient requires help beyond their boundaries, they are quick to enlist the support of a colleague in exactly the right field. And I have also appreciated that some times it is just good to talk to your doctor, even when there is no personal need of medical help, but only comfort and reassurance. Yes, doctors have a lot more to do than just administer injections, take blood pressure and prescribe medication but I wish they would learn to write! Yet I think one of the greatest features of the medical profession is the Hippocratic Oath that most doctors still adhere to and which not only stresses confidentiality but also encourages them to live uprightly and also give of their best in their workplace.

Luke, the most famous of all physicians and writer of two New Testament books, gives very clear medical reports of Jesus during His Passion. Recently I have been reading a medical account of the Crucifixion that I found on a web page and which probably puts into perspective, in words, the pain and suffering of our Lord, more so than Mel Gibson's film on the subject could ever have portrayed. And yet in some way, Jesus likened Himself to a physician when he responded to the Pharisees who voiced their approval of Him eating with sinners, when He said 'It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick.' Yet later the teachers and elders of the Law would mock Him on the cross by saying 'He saved others but he can't save himself.' Jesus' response was to forgive them and through His death and resurrection to become the Great Physician who can heal all spiritual disease and save all souls. And just as doctors have undertaken to honour the oath that they have taken, Jesus has made a promise to us that He will never break. I think it's best summed up in that little word from John 3 v 16, 'whosoever'. And that's why, often before He healed someone of their physical ailment, He took the time to cure their spiritual sickness by forgiving their sins. Make an appointment to see Him today. HE won't keep you waiting.

D is for DEPARTURE

We were gardening in a little triangular flower bed that ran parallel to the drive leading towards our top entrance, on the day that he chose to leave. Walking past, he glanced in our direction with a look that was a mixture of anger and resignation but was clearly meant to extract the maximum amount of concern and sympathy from those to whom it was directed. And certainly not the indifference and wry smiles that greeted his departure. But though it was difficult not to derive some amusement from the moment, we suppressed the desire to laugh loudly and buried ourselves in our digging. On he walked, until he reached the gates, about ten yards beyond the bed, at which point, a careful yet disguised backward and supposedly last glance in our direction to check for movement or even a goodbye wave and then, with no apparent reaction from the gardeners, he disappeared out on to the lane. Neither of us knew what was in the small suitcase that he had dragged up the drive but if it was his life savings, then it couldn't have been too heavy since he still was only about five or six years old, but we guessed there was probably a teddy bear, maybe his pyjamas and a Beano but little else. And, after all, granny's house was only forty yards beyond. Anyway, he came back shortly afterwards, though I can't remember whether it was of his own accord or if we went to fetch him or if granny arrived with a prodigal in the car but what always sticks in my mind is that we remember him leaving but can't recall why. The next time he would leave home with a suitcase and without us, would be many years later, but we knew exactly why and many times since, for holidays, school trips, training camps, church and youth weekends and university the same scenario has been played out for both lads, but the great thing is that they always have come back to where they started. Yet experience tells me that this will not always be the case and some day they will find a new place to dwell even if it is never home.

Yes departures are never easy but the call of home is strong and somehow I think it is almost always more difficult for those who stay rather than for those who depart, for that very reason. We had the privilege of spending part of two summers with a great friend whom I'd known from childhood, but who had spent all of his adolescence and adulthood on the other side of the world, but like all good things, his time came to an end and saying goodbye was infinitely more difficult than saying hello. And while he found parting difficult, he was ready to return home to his family and the longer tears were probably ours. I know because I've stood where he stood and said goodbye a thousand times but ready to say hello to what I long to see again.

I remember in our school magazine, at the end of every school year, there were always two lists of pupils for whom salvete and valete had special meaning but I'm sure for those who had been their teachers and mentors for the previous seven or so years, that latter list of farewells often brought tinges of sadness mixed with a degree of satisfaction that they had been of some help in shaping the lives of children left in their care. As our other son, not of the suitcase fame, prepares to spend a year away from home on a university placement and mission experience, I'm sure departures will be a subject I shall return to before the year is out.

Before Jesus left his disciples and departed for heaven to be with His Father, His promise had been simple and straight forward when He said 'And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also.' Even the angels who comforted the disciples after His departure reminded them of this fact. 'Men of Galilee," they said, "why do you stand here looking into the sky? This same Jesus, who has been taken from you into heaven, will come back in the same way you have seen him go into heaven.' I think that probably puts human departure a little more into perspective, to know that our final parting, if we believe in Jesus and have made Him our Saviour, is really only temporary and some day we will be reunited with Him and with each other. I guess that's why when mum was about to make her final departure, just two years ago next week, she wasn't so sad after all, because she was going home for ever. Goodbye for now.

D is for DEAF

His name was Jim. He spent almost all of his working life as a baker for Inglis in Belfast. He was a brother of my mother so by blood relations my uncle and in age terms he sat somewhere near the middle of her eight brothers though he would have been more associated with the younger siblings who always looked out for him. And he was completely deaf and dumb from birth. Obviously I only knew him long after he had left his teens but I often wondered how my grandmother coped, initially with the news of his disability and then with the realisation of the changes it would bring to her life and the difficulties it would mean for him. I'm sure the moment he was born she had her suspicions that something just wasn't right for the sounds of a baby crying in those first moments after birth are the sweetest sounds a mother hears, though they can be viewed much differently a few months down the road. For some reason I never asked my mum how he coped at home as a baby and a toddler, where he went to school in those early years and how he communicated with everyone else when he wanted to say something or was just feeling unwell. I wondered how his mum would call him for tea, how she would tell him off when he was naughty and how she could help him with his homework. But he had a wonderfully close family of brothers and a sister who must have looked after him for by the time I got to know him, most of them, but mainly the younger ones talked freely with him, using the deaf sign language, so that he was never left out of any conversation. The older members of the family, including mum, never really got to grips with the whole sign thing and though I never asked, I guess it was simply because they were older and were away from home at secondary school or working when he was still to reach his teenage years. But I used to sit in my grandmother's big house on Boxing Day and marvel at 'the boys' as they talked with each other and relayed everything that was being discussed, to Jim and he would respond with his answer written on his hands. He knew I couldn't communicate with him in the same way so when we had a 'conversation' he would spell out the letters on the palm of his hand with his index finger and I would reply in similar fashion, but usually the whole discussion was relatively short and often contained a fair few 'thumbs up' or 'thumbs down' , winks, frowns, smiles and head nods when we wanted to take a short cut to getting our message through.

He was a great footballer and cricketer and older people I meet who knew him when the family lived in Armagh, are quick to remember his sports skills but never forget his disability. Neither did his mother, for even though she was a firm believer on God with a great and vibrant faith, she insisted on doing the 'Spot the Ball' competition in the Belfast Telegraph every week in the hope that she might win some money to give to her son who had been less fortunate than his brothers and sister. But she never did win. I guess God was simply telling her that money is no replacement for everlasting happiness.


But life for Jim went on and through a deaf club that he visited socially, he found happiness in the form of a young girl from Ballymena who would later become his wife. I remember being at their wedding because I think it may have been my first but I was too young to now remember how the marriage service was conducted since both husband and wife to be could neither speak nor hear. Afterwards they settled in Belfast, not far from his mother and I remember going to visit them with my sister. Jim took us there from my grandmother's and he had one of those Morris Minors with the indicators that stuck out from just behind the front doors. I remember thinking how difficult it must be to drive in a silent world but also how great it must be not to have to listen to the horns of impatient drivers and the constant noise of town traffic. It probably wasn't the easiest of evenings since neither of us spoke each other's language but I guess they always made more effort than we did and I often regret not learning how to communicate with them properly. I also recall on a couple of occasions how the room lights flashed and soon learned that this was their front doorbell. But we still lived in an age when subtitles on television were still in their infancy so there were always difficulties to overcome.


In the next few years they had two children both of whom could speak and hear perfectly and I reckon they had to grow up pretty quickly because very soon they became the ears and mouth of their parents. And my grandmother was able to at last give something to her son for she would look after both the children when their parents were at work and at the same time help to nurture their communication skills . But just over twenty years later tragedy would strike the family twice when first Jim's son would die following an injury playing football and then JIm would suffer from an incurable illness that would eventually take his life. His wife and daughter still live in and around the city and are very much part of our larger family and wife and I had the pleasure of singing at my cousin's wedding just a few years ago, but I'll never forget her father who spoke to me through the message that was written on his hands.


As we approach Easter I don't need to remind myself that Jesus speaks to me through a similar message written on His hands, a message of giving, of cost, of pain, of suffering but most of all of love for me. I don't need to be like Thomas, who couldn't believe that Jesus had risen again when he said 'Unless I see the nail marks in his hands and put my finger where the nails were, and put my hand into his side, I will not believe it.' And those hands which held Him to a cross are the same hands that healed, comforted, broke bread and held children as He blessed them. And they even made deaf people hear again. And while Jesus is not here in the flesh, the message written on His hands makes us all hear that He is not dead but very much alive and able to save us. And if we come and ask God today to be our Saviour, He will not turn a deaf ear to our request. Remember, everyone can be deaf when they don't want to hear.

D is for DISASTER

I was still at primary school when the slag tip came down the mountain and buried a generation. I remember watching the grainy, monochrome pictures on the television, for days afterwards as the rescuers attempted to find signs of life beneath the rubble and the black sludge until they were eventually no longer in rescue mode. And so began a salvage operation, trying to find every little body whose unexpected last breath had taken place in the very building where they probably felt so secure. Aberfan always sticks in my mind, not because I was old enough to be aware of the full impact of such a disaster but because I could see the pain etched in my mum’s face and my dad’s words as they came to terms with the thought of so many parents losing children who were roughly the same age as their own. For years afterwards, I bought the newspapers on the 'important' anniversaries of the disaster and read with more understanding, the complexities of the cause and the simple awfulness of loss. 2006 was the fortieth anniversary of the event and for the first time since it happened, once again I viewed the black and white pictures of my childhood, the desolate scene, the demolished school, the queue of hearses on their way to the graveyard and the trench-like grave containing a row of tiny coffins and a whole generation. And of course the survivors, those fortunate enough to escape the black death but never able to escape the memories that remain fresh with every anniversary and not just the 'important' ones.

I was much older when the Herald of Free Enterprise ferry capsized one cold night near the port of Zeebrugge and almost two hundred people lost their lives in shallow water and calm conditions. The television pictures were now in colour but the horror was grey and the darkness of that late winter evening only added to the confusion of what was actually happening.

Only a year earlier we had all witnessed, in colour, the space shuttle Challenger, explode shortly after lift off, in front of families and a world wide audience, killing all seven astronauts on board and seventeen years later, view a similar tragedy and loss of life as Columbia disintegrated on return to earth. Only two years previously, the most terrifying disaster of our modern age had been broadcast around the world one morning as two planes destroyed the tallest buildings in New York in a matter of a few minutes and we all watched the event unfold with disbelief as people died before our eyes and others showed superhuman courage in the face of such incredible danger, courage which cost many brave heroes their lives. And television once again brought disaster into our living rooms as we visually eavesdropped on the far side of the world just after Christmas and saw the damage that Mother Nature can wreak through a Tsunami and how over two hundred thousand people can cease to exist.

So when I hear people talk about their day , their performance in an exam, their baking, their football team's result or their interview being a disaster, I wonder have they really stopped to consider what they've actually said. My dictionary describes such as a 'calamitous event occurring suddenly and usually with great loss of life.' Now I've had my share of bad days, disappointing exams, poor football results and the occasional collapsed Pavlova but none have been calamitous and certainly not disastrous. But the lesson I learn from all of the events above is not just the terrible loss of life but that they happened within reach of safety yet there was no time left to get help. Doesn't that worry you when you think about how near you can be to the safety and security of a heavenly Father and yet be lost, because when He comes or calls, there is no time left to send out an SOS. And the Bible tells us in Matthew's Gospel 'No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.' Wouldn't it be a disaster to miss it?

D is for DIG

I once dug a hole in a field, not for any aesthetic purpose, you understand, nor because I was searching for buried treasure, nor even because I wanted to conceal something from view, but I did dig with purpose and eventually, unlike U2, I found what I was looking for. It was a pipe, not one of the smoking variety, nor even a water pipe but it was a pipe that should have contained water. My first realisation that I needed to dig was when water began to take longer than normal to soak away from the gulleys around the house. Closer inspection indicated that a blockage had happened somewhere and when an inspection of the drainage and sewage systems showed no obvious malfunction, I was drawn to the field beyond and a strange dampness that seemed to have developed therein. In my mind I knew probably that the main soakaway pipe into the field was blocked but I had to find it first, so taking my line of sight where the pipe clearly entered the field, I began to dig, down and down and down, for a good few feet and several buckets of sweat later, there it was, partially hidden by some fairly large stones and a sprinkling of pebbles but there was no sign of any water. Surgery was needed and I soon discovered that while less specific in its treatment, a JCB is certainly quicker. I suppose the difference between it and my spade is the difference between a general and a local anaesthetic, if you catch my drift but it took my persistence in the first place to find what we were looking for.

Dad was such a great digger, he could have dug for Ulster, but mostly he preferred to dig in it. Near the orchard at the back of our home, he had a vegetable garden, that was bordered on two sides by hedges and on the other two by a rather elaborate, yet incomplete fence that was joined at the corner to a makeshift gate. It was certainly not Fort Knox, though the majority of possible invaders or thieves remained outside except for the very occasional starving rabbit or escaping cow. And it was a hard dig, but about this time of year, he would have already begun to turn the first few sods with a view to planting the vegetables in early spring. Inside the fence and hedge border was an area about one third of the size of a penalty area but the only goal was to be finished before Easter. And he was quite happy to spend whole days or the light evenings when he returned from market, completing another couple of feet along its length. Occasionally I joined him for the torture but usually was able to be otherwise occupied for the initial dig which was the hard bit. After that he would swap the spade for a grape and sift through the soil again, removing any stones or breaking down any large lumps and eventually forming the whole show into a series of drills at the bottom of which he placed a layer of well rotted cow manure before closing them up in readiness for the planting. So every year, by the early summer, we had a fresh supply of peas, cabbages, scallions, lettuce, parsley and cauliflower on the table and only because dad was persistent in his digging.

It occurs to me that there are probably only two reasons why we dig. Either we are trying to bury something or we are trying to raise something. In both cases it's hard work but Paul tells us we have to do both to be reconciled to God, when he tells the Colossian Christians 'having been buried with him in baptism and raised with him through your faith in the power of God, who raised him from the dead.' But once we have that faith, God expects us to dig deep into His Word in order to know Him better and thus grow to be more like Him. It doesn't happen overnight and we need to be persistent in seeking Him in the very depths of the Scriptures.

Incidentally, the old vegetable patch at home is no more. For a few years after dad was no longer fit to dig, we tried to keep it going but eventually it turned back into grass and weeds and soon it was no different to anything else around. I guess there's a lesson in there for us all. About persistence. About neglect. About others seeing us as different. But mostly it's just about digging. And the deeper the better.

D is for DEVIL

It was a beautiful moonlit and starry night with a distinct chill in the air and the threat of a frosty morning not so far away. I stood for a while at the front porch, clutching a cup of hot coffee and surrounded by a mixture of artificial and natural lighting, just gazing at the myriad of house lights, street lights and car headlamps that lit up my world as far as the horizon and lying below a canopy of stars and a moon that seemed to have fallen over onto its side, in the vain hope of attracting some attention. A few steps later and I was out on the road, beyond the confines of the house and the diluting effect of artificial lamps with only the stars to keep me company. It was a wonderful sight so I chose to do something I've never even attempted before. I decided to count them. Starting off with just a small area that I could border inside a rectangular shape I had constructed with my fingers and thumbs, I began to count, but I hadn't even reached double figures when fainter and more distant stars began to appear inside the shape, as my eyes became more alert to the dim conditions. Several times I tried again but each time the same thing happened until soon I realised that I could never even begin to count the stars.

I guess it's much the same with blades of grass, even in a small lawn and certainly for sand pebbles on a beach. There just is no way of even coming up with an estimate of the number of stars, grass blades or sand pebbles that exist in our world and yet God knows exactly how many of each. So what a wonderful promise God made to Abraham when he said 'I will surely bless you and make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and as the sand on the seashore.' And even in my gradually increasing state of hairlessness, I still couldn't count the hairs on my head but God can for He says 'And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows.'

And what are we worth to Him if He knows even the number of hairs we have. Well we are worth enough for Him to sacrifice His only Son and that little word 'whosoever' in some of the older Bible translations is just so all encompassing that it leaves nobody out and means that each of us is individually important to Him and noone more so than any other. How great to think that the President of America, the Queen of England, the Pope in the Vatican, the owner of Microsoft, Mr Putin, Kylie Minogue, Pele, Paul Macartney and Ian Paisley are all equally loved by God and none of them any more loved than I am or a mother living in a Cape Town township. What a beautiful picture of God's love and also of His knowledge of each of us and His concern for our spiritual well being. And so often, because we believe in His all embracing power and majesty, His all-knowing all-seeing eye, we are quick to lay blame at His feet when trouble knocks at our door. And sometimes we forget that while He is in control of our lives, we do have free will and we also have the presence of a fallen angel who is directly opposed to everything God has made and stands for.

John writes, 'He who does what is sinful is of the devil, because the devil has been sinning from the beginning. The reason the Son of God appeared was to destroy the devil's work.' And in the process of dying and rising again He did just that by claiming victory over death, the devil's only prize for those who follow Him. Sometimes I wonder why Eve was not completely shocked when a snake actually spoke to her. Maybe it's just a warning to us all that the devil may not always approach us in exactly the way we expect. After all he is also described as a roaring lion. And even God himself in human form was not spared the attraction of temptation that was set before Him in the wilderness. Yet again, it's not the temptation but what we do with it that matters.

Anyway, this was all supposed to be about the devil, but I've really no room for him. And you should do the same..