P is for POTATO

Don't you remember raffia? You know that ribbon sort of stuff that every primary school couldn't have survived without. Many an afternoon we spent in craft class, weaving raffia into various designs using a whole range of colours. Sometimes it tended to begin to fray in your hands after working with it too long and it was always a devil to tie up at the end. But the great thing was that all that sort of mess was restricted to the back of the piece of work you were crafting and all anyone ever saw was a beautiful finished piece of weaving.

The sometimes we would get out the plasticine and build walls and houses and strange looking creatures that were supposed to be human but looked more like sausage dogs standing up on their hind legs. Yet it was great fun, working on the little plasticine boards still containing remnants of last week's playtime and using the small shaping knives with the wooden handles. Trouble was, as the weeks went by it was more difficult to get a piece of virgin plasticine that wasn't tainted with some other colour as we all loved to roll several different pieces into one and see the myriad of colours it would produce, in a sort of marbled pattern.

Occasionally we brought in our own bits and pieces and I remember well, acquiring a couple of Squeezy bottles over the year, one of which was covered with paper and converted into a lighthouse complete with paper mache rocks. The other one became a rocket with three wings that helped it to stand upright and had the letters CIJ emblazoned along both sides to represent the three people in the gang who had made it.

But the best time in cart and craft was when we painted. Not just the usual brush stuff, but creating patterns with a small piece of sponge dabbed on the page or painting water colours over a picture drawn with a wax candle so that the picture itself became visible against the background of paint. And then there was the potato, just an ordinary spud out of the larder at home but with an end cut off and a design, such as a star or a cross, carved into the bare flesh. When this was dipped in paint and pressed down on the page, in different areas, it quickly became a pattern that was easy to make and pleasing to look at. But you really needed a different potato for every colour for the paint soaked into the flesh and was there for all time.

These days any potatoes I encounter are usually making a quite different design, using a different liquid, on the plate beside the gravy, in fact. We were chatting today in class about the potato famine in Ireland and I doubt if ever such a situation would arise again as most people are not dependent on the spud as their staple or only food, Indeed, such is the diversity of culture in our midst, that many dinner tables are just as much at ease with rice, pasta or bread as their carbohydrate source and I notice that more and more of our children in school return their plates after lunch with their scoop of potato untouched. My dad would have been horrified for though he lived long after the famine, potatoes were still the mainstay of the family diet. The funny thing though is that, after all these years of dabbling in a variety of other accompaniments to a main course, restaurants are returning to the humble spud once more and now it's very trendy to have 'mash' or 'champ' with a meal or to dress up chips as 'garlic fries' , 'thick cut chips', 'hash browns', 'pommes dauphine', waffles, wedges or 'curly fries.' But they're all still potatoes at heart.

Doesn't it make you wonder why some folks want to so dress up Christianity to make it more palatable to others? I listened to a young lad the other night, who had always wondered why his local CE was able to keep such large numbers without providing pool tables, snack bars, dart boards and other attractions. Then he said he discovered the reason was because they just presented Christianity without the gimmicks. Sometimes I think there is a bit of a famine in some of our churches because people don't get the only thing that can satisfy a hungry heart. We're so consumed with civil rights, helping others, caring for and educating people in third world countries, renovating our church buildings and trying to be innovative to attract young people and non church goers, yet we forget that if we truly belong to Jesus, all these things come naturally to us because we share the compassion that He showed towards others. Jesus says 'But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.'

There's no need to dress up a potato when it's already got on its best jacket. If anyone has an image problem it certainly isn't God!

P is for PIANO

Our piano badly needs tuning. It's an old Broadwood that I thought was over fifty years of age. But recently I came across an identical one on a piano seller's website and it was made around the late eighteen hundreds so I guess I was out by nearly one hundred years.My grandad bought it for something like ten pounds in one of the old auction rooms down in Belfast. HE used to go off for hours into the city and potter about the auctions, rarely buying anything, but occasionally picking up the odd bargain. Anyway, one day he saw this beautiful concert grand piano in a rosewood casing, over eight feet long and in good condition and he wouldn't go home without it, though I don't really think he had thought the whole project through for he and my grandmother had moved to a much smaller house than where they once lived and a grand piano almost nine feet long and several feet wide was going to take up considerable space in any of the rooms they had. But that didn't seem to worry him and when the delivery men brought it home, he promptly instructed them to place it in the sitting room. And there it remained for many years, along the full length of one wall, just behind the door and also poking out almost to the middle of the room. On a family get together, when everyone piled in to the available seating space, the proverbial cat would never have lived in fear of being swung.

Every visit, I dabbled at it and though I often played our own upright piano at home, this was a completely different experience, with the lid propped up and a warm, soft sound emanating from the strings within and I would just sit there for ages, playing chords and singing songs of all types. The legacy of that time was that the piano came to dwell in our house, after my grandmother died, just like she had promised it would. But not without a bit of a struggle. I mean, how do you move an eight foot six concert grand piano into your new house when you haven't built it yet and it has to leave its old home. Not easily is the correct answer. So I did it in two parts. With the help of a good rugby friend who ran his own antique business and had a van suitable for the purpose, together we moved the said instrument to mum's sitting room, which was no bigger than the room from whence it had come. That process in itself was an ordeal for it's no easy task to get such a wooden brute with an iron frame out of a small house and up into a van. And there it sat until our house was finished. The only problem now was that we wanted to put it upstairs where our living room would be. I remember the day we moved it the hundred yards from one house to the other, on a fork lift attached to the back of a tractor. It was a long, slow journey and when we reached the house, it had to be 'levered' to the upper floor on two railway sleepers before the actual stairs was installed. So for several weeks after it was in position, nobody could get upstairs to see it or play it!


I remember at the time, an old joke that just about summed up the whole event. It's about a man whose wife asked him to move their piano upstairs while she was at work. When she arrived home, sure enough, the piano was sitting at the top of the stairs. When she enquired how he had managed to do it all on his won, he replied that the cat had helped him. 'How did you get the cat to help you?' she asked. 'Simple,' he answered, 'I used a whip!'


As I was saying, before I went off at a tangent, it badly needs tuned. It's been sitting there for over twenty years and was tuned some time ago, but now that younger son plays it incessantly and also teachers other students on it, some of the notes just don't quite reach where they're meant to any more. For a while it was bearable but lately one particular note, a B flat, I think, just isn't playing ball. Now here's the thing. For years I've tuned guitars and I'm pretty accurate at it, for I know each string just by its pitch and don't need to use any of the tuning methods I learnt years ago. So, with no tuner handy and that note grating every time it was pressed, I thought, 'why not have a go myself.' That was then, this is now, for if the note was slightly annoying before it is driving me up the walls since. You see, piano tuning is not just a job for a pair of pliers or a socket wrench and a good ear. No, each note on this piano is an amalgam of three strings, all at very slight different pitches and if one is moved just a little to the wrong tension, the result is the most awful discord you could ever witness. It's not something I can fix, no matter how I try for it needs the piano tuner, with all his training and experience to put it right.


Our minister was talking about unity on Sunday and how we as believers must work together as the whole body of Christ. Where there is discord or lack of harmony, if we can see it or hear it then God certainly knows about it too. And even when we try to sort it out by our own methods, it only succeeds for a season, if at all and too often we make it worse. What we need is the Master tuner to restore harmony. That's why Paul, in writing to the Galatians, lists 'discord' as one of the acts of the sinful nature and why Peter writes 'Finally, all of you, live in harmony with one another; be sympathetic, love as brothers, be compassionate and humble.' Are you living in harmony with your fellow brother or is God hearing discordant sounds. As Him today to repair the damage and so be in tune with His will for your life.

P is for PURSUIT

I knew a man who, when he played golf, would run after his tee shot occasionally. He may just have been keen to see where the ball landed but I reckon he just wanted to take less time to play a round. His dad wasn't very different either for every Sunday, just before the minister started the service, he would run up the aisle to his seat at the front, as if being pursued by somebody. I guess it was in the genes.

When I was much younger and we had lots of cattle on the farm, an almost weekly task involved rounding up some of the stock to send to market or bringing one animal into the cattle crush to inject or dose it against some disease. Many times dad and I spent ages luring the animals in question to within touching distance of the gate and so often, just when they seemed ready to pass through, one would break away from the group and within seconds the rest would run off in ten different directions. Dad had taught me never to try to bring one animal out of a field on its own as it rarely worked. I guess it probably looked around and wondered why it was being singled out for special attention. Anyway, no matter how many times the animals made their getaway, dad would never give up his pursuit of them and even if he had to walk to the furthest corner of the field to retrieve the stock, he would do so and slowly ushered them back towards the gate. I think he worked on the principle that they would get tired before he did. He also taught me something else about the whole process and that was never to chase after them when they darted off because they could most probably outrun us and we were only wasting valuable energy. And he was so right. Often, when a cow broke away from the rest and turned round to see nobody in hot pursuit, she would stop, turn around and amble back to the herd. I'm sure dad learned it all from his father so it must have been in the genes.

Unfortunately the same advice didn't work on the rugby field and there is nothing more annoying than pursuing an opponent with all your muscles pumping at their maximum output and watching him move further out of reach with every stride and with apparent less effort than you are having to exert. And of course the reverse is also true when you are the pursued and someone is gaining on your tail faster than you can run and you've already worked out in your head by some sort of magical calculation that by the time they catch up, you will still be a few inches short of the try line. Yes there were just those who could run faster from the day I first knew them and all the way through school and my sports career, even though I knew I was getting faster, unfortunately so were they and I never did catch them. It must have been in their genes.

But there's more than one way to pursue an opponent and sometimes stamina is more important than speed. I remember watching an old nature programme of a cheetah, that fastest of land animals, pursuing a gazelle-like animal. The big cat's initial speed almost brought it upon the deer, but a quick change of direction by the prey, temporarily put it off course and its initial advantage was gone. For the next few minutes the same thing happened each time the cheetah got close to its kill and after each effort, it was clear that what it had in terms of speed was not matched by its stamina. Eventually it lay exhausted in the shade and the deer waltzed off to safety, this time anyway. I guess the cheetah could have been doing with my dad as fitness coach. Anyway, for both animals it must have been in the genes.

The word pursuit is interesting for it conjures up not just following or chasing after but eventually catching and securing that which has been pursued. What are you pursuing in life? That's what a good friend was preaching about last night and as I thought about it, I wondered what I was pursuing in the hope of securing. I don't think I ever consciously pursued money, a good job, a nice house and family and a nice car but somehow through the years I have managed to be comfortable in my career and home life without ever being extravagant in either area. But I don't pursue things that money can give me for when all is stripped away, there's just me and nothing else. So I try to pursue a deeper faith in God and a better understanding of this wonderful and majestic being who, despite his power and intelligence, actually loves me enough to want me to be His son. Isn't that why Jesus told the parable of the Good Shepherd who had ninety nine safe sheep but still chose to pursue the one that was lost. And here's the beauty of that story. He kept searching until he found it. Isn't that what it's all about. God is calling for us and we are still hiding, but He won't give up until we answer His call. It's all a question of stamina and I wonder if it's in the genes???

P is for PRESIDENTS

It was the summer of ninety seven, a hot morning in Boston and after breakfast we were having a leisurely stroll down from our hotel into town when there seemed to be an unusually high level of police presence. Stopping with two cops who were standing beside their motor bikes, we discovered that the President, Mr. Clinton was in town and had been all of the previous evening but would shortly be departing from his hotel, just across the street. Like thousands of others, our plans were immediately altered and after a quick sortie around the area we were back in the vicinity of the hotel where the special guest was staying and encamped ourselves behind a barrier, along his exit route. Some two hours later, after suffering in the midday sun and watching the host of security personnel on horseback, rooftop and mingling in the crowd, though not very discretely, a car pulled up to the front of the hotel, a makeshift tunnel was drawn from hotel door to car door and at some stage the President moved from building to motor cavalcade. Less than a minute later his car passed by our vantage point and one could just make out the well known face behind the darkened and bullet proof windows as he waved continuously to the waiting hordes lining the route before disappearing off into the distance. What a long wait for just a glimpse!

The other day, a close friend sent me an email about Presidents so let me share it with you. It concerns Abraham Lincoln and John F Kennedy both of whom were assassinated but did you know of these coincidences concerning the two individuals in question? Lincoln was elected to Congress in 1846, Kennedy in 1946. Lincoln became President in 1860, Kennedy in 1960. Both their wives lost children while living in the White House and both Presidents were shot in the head on a Friday. But that's not all. Lincoln's secretary was called Kennedy and Kennedy's secretary was called Lincoln and both Presidents were succeeded by Southerners named Johnston, Andrew who followed Lincoln, was born in 1808 while Lyndon who came after Kennedy was born in 1908. Lincoln's assassin, John Wilkes Booth was born in 1839, always known by his three names which total fifteen letters. Lee Harvey Oswald, who assassinated Kennedy, was born in 1939, was always known by his three names and they also total fifteen letters. Are you still there? Anyway, Lincoln was shot in the A theatre called Ford while Kennedy was shot in a Lincoln car made by Ford. After shooting his victim in the theatre, Booth went and hid in a warehouse. Oswald, on the other hand shot Kennedy from a warehouse and went and hid in a theatre. And both assassins were murdered before they came to trial. Now here's the final shaker. One week before Lincoln was murdered, he was in Monroe, Maryland. One week before Kennedy died, he was with Marilyn Monroe. Creepy or what?

The President came to Armagh a few years ago, during the development of the Peace Process. He flew over our house in his helicopter but I didn't bother to travel the nine miles into the city to see him. I figured if he was keen to see me, he could easily have dropped his helicopter down in the field beside my house and the cows would have given him a guard of honour. And anyway, in just a few years, his term of office would be over and he would just be about as important as the rest of us. Still, I've often thought of that day, eleven years ago, when we spent so long just to catch a glimpse of America's most important man and I think of Zacchaeus who climbed a tree just to get a glimpse of Jesus, but He didn't pass by without greeting him. No, in fact he invited himself for tea that very afternoon. You know the most interesting thing about his encounter with Jesus was that it changed his life and indeed his whole perspective on life for he announced, 'Look, Lord! Here and now I give half of my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount.' And Jesus replied by saying, 'Today salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a son of Abraham.For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost.'

And that's how it should be when we get a glimpse of our Lord, our lives should be changed for ever, for He sees us just as we are and not as others see us. How long will you wait to get a glimpse of the Master as He passes your way or will He pass by when you're looking the other way?

P is for PAINT

We used to have those little long boxes at home, that were usually made of metal and when you opened the hinged lid, inside were about twelve or more different little, solid rectangular blocks of paint in a variety of colours and shades. Lying alongside this was a paint brush or maybe two and when the hinged lid lay flat and open it contained several larger grooves for mixing colours and getting just the right shade to complete your masterpiece. And that's where most of my creations started and finished. I've no doubt that it is one of God's gifts to many individuals, not only to be able to visualise a picture and its associated colours but how to just get the correct shading that brings a two dimensional piece of art so stunningly to life. I've also no doubt that this particular gift was not one He chose to bestow on me, though my distant past, now obscured partly by many foggy memories, does recall a time when I really enjoyed messing about with paints, though I guess I was more interested in just adding colour to a page rather than adding realism. And we've all had a go ourselves, dipping the brush into the little cup or jar of water, swishing it around in the rectangular paint block and then brushing it on to the drawing in question. Then going back to the water, rinsing the brush and choosing another colour to add to the scene. Unfortunately, probably like many others, I was always not the thorough rinser of brushes that I should have been so often strange colours and shades began to congregate on top of the many little blocks of paint, probably most noticeable on the yellow rectangles that began to exhibit lines of blue and green. And of course when everything had hardened, few of the blocks were left untarnished by streaks of other colours. However, the more I used the paint box, the more obvious it became that certain colours were either preferred or required more than others and it wasn't long before a deep valley began to appear in certain rectangles, eventually leading to a hole, but I don't think I ever exhausted any palette so completely that it had disappeared altogether.

Long before I had settled into secondary school, I had already decided that Art wasn't for me and I certainly wasn't for it and the paint box was closed and put away for ever, though my sister did continue to dabble in water colours and at one stage had acquired a few little tubes of oil based paints but, sadly, it wouldn't become her forte either. Several years ago, though, I thought I'd give it another try when I discovered an old 'painting by numbers' kit that the boys had never used, but I soon found out that those extra years of knowledge and experience had done little to develop my artistic ability with the brush and in terms of painting, I can't even count up to ten! That's why I get frustrated when I see wife and youngest son, both able to draw and paint, yet seldom using a gift that I would love to possess.

And so these days and for many years, I have restricted myself to using a much broader brush and painting walls, window ledges, ceilings and doors, where the shade and colour is predetermined and where mistakes and lack of ability are less likely to be noticed. Yet again, it's only when you watch a real professional that you understand that this sort of painting is ever bit as much an art and a skill in its own right, as that done with a finer brush on a canvas. From the preparation of the surface to the amount of paint on the brush, to choosing the right brush and knowing how to apply it correctly to the surface so as not to leave any obvious streaking and of course the ability to paint into corners, around ledges and window panes and to develop straight lines, all takes time and no little skill to get right.

When we first built our house, took on the unenviable task of painting it inside and out and many summer mornings I was to be found in a room or with a ladder up against a wall, before the clock had struck five, happily swishing away with a brush and listening to the offerings on the local radio station. And for some reason, I always associate that time with one song by Bruce Hornsby and the Range called 'The Way it is' released that summer and one which. for me, started a love affair with the band, that has never died through the years and culminated in seeing them in concert in Belfast quite a few years ago. Of course my other main memory was painting the outside walls while eldest son, at the time, only son, sat chirping away in his buggy. I think that's the closest he ever got to painting the walls since! But I still love to paint and there is a great satisfaction to be found in the finished piece of work as well as the opportunity that painting gives to devote time to our thoughts.

When I put the picture of my life in the hands of the Master painter, He always gets it right, each colour and shade chosen with care, each brush stroke delicately applied and each mistake that i have made carefully erased and replaced with something far better. So often, I tarnish the pure colours with imperfections and yet He comes along and makes them right again, making me presentable to His Father. And without His intervention, the picture of my life would never be good enough for the God of heaven. But like my attempts at art, I had to come to that realisation in my life that what I did could never be good enough and stop trying to please God by my own imperfect ways. It is only through yielding to Jesus that I can please God and only through Him that I can communicate with my Creator. And no matter how many times I let Him down, I can never exhaust His forgiveness nor His love for me. Jesus work was finished through His death on a cross but in some lives the picture He wants to create hasn't even been started yet.

N is for NUMBERS

My life is nothing more than a mass of numbers. It all started this morning with my first set of numbers when I woke far too early out of a deep sleep to be confronted by wife, also sleepless as it happens, wanting to know the time. What I meant to say was 'I don't know, can't you see my eyes are closed and it's still dark out there and my head is facing the opposite way to the clock and I'm not moving,' but I just managed to stumble out the first three words and since it was met with such a sigh of disapproval, there was no other road to travel except a one hundred and eighty degree swivel to face the dreaded timepiece which was shouting out the numbers 05:00 from its smug face. By the time I had dreamed a thousand dreams it would be displaying 07:00 so I made it sleepily down to the kitchen where I cut 4 grapes and 1 strawberry into my cereal before switching on the television and alternating between buttons 1 and 3 to find out the latest news and then resorting to teletext and punching in 101 to read the updates fro myself, followed by 160 for the local news and finally 301 and 390 to catch up on the national and local sport. And it was still only 07:10 when opened my daily readings at April 25th and then read John chapter 8 verses 37 to 42. But to be honest, you could have picked any morning this week and, apart from the early morning wakening, much of the same ritual would have been observed. One cup of tea and half a piece of toast later I was up getting dressed, having passed wife somewhere in the house a few minutes earlier and by 07:35 I was gone, ambling the one and a half miles to school at about 40 miles per hour, while quickly alternating between 909 and 1094 on the radio. And so it went on. I punched in the number code on the copier, ran 30 copies of the Friday test that contained 10 spellings, 20 Tables and 10 Mental Maths, counted the number of pupils absent (2), those present (28), those taking dinner (13) and those on free dinners (2), made two phone calls, sent one fax, marked 30 homeworks, distributed 10 old computers, watched a video about Columbus in 1492, left school at 15:25, had coffee with a friend at 16:00, went out with the family at night, punched in my card number, and finished this blog about 23:00.

Isn't it amazing how much we can do with just 10 numbers? I've been thinking about all the numbers that dominate our lives, like birth days, birth years, birth months, wedding dates, death anniversaries, age numbers, credit card numbers, debit card numbers, expiry dates, PIN numbers, account numbers, national insurance numbers, mobile and land line phone numbers, fax numbers, house numbers, passport numbers, reference numbers, hymn numbers, bus numbers, car registration numbers, CD track numbers, radio station frequency numbers, television channel numbers and page numbers. And how certain numbers have an association with something in our history. Like number 7 that always reminds me of footballers like George Best, David Beckham and Kenny Dalglish or a local restaurant. Or 208 that helps me recall Radio Luxembourg that I used to listen to in my teens. And 99 that was a pop single all about balloons or an ice cream with a flake. 45s that were the vinyl singles we once bought or 33s that held a full album of songs.

And the Bible is just as full of numbers like the 10 commandments, 12 tribes of Israel, 4 Gospels, 12 disciples, 40 days and 40 nights, 30 pieces of silver, 2 of every animal, 969 years of Methuselah, the 3 gifts for the baby, 7 days marching around Jericho, 4 winds, 5,000 fed, 5 loaves, 2 fishes, 10 lepers, 5 foolish virgins, 3 score and 10, 6 days of creation, forgiveness of 70 times 7 and of course 99 safe sheep. And while these all are significant numbers, surely the most important is 3 that stands for the Trinity of God the Father, Jesus the Son whom He sent to die for our sins and The Holy Spirit which He sends to be our Comforter and Guide when we accept Jesus as Saviour, 2 that reminds me of the thieves that died either side of our Lord and also that we have 2 ways we can choose to go and finally 1 way that leads to heaven and life everlasting. Jesus says 'I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.' He is the 1 way but HE still cares about the 1 lost sheep. Does it add up?

N is for NOODLES

I knew I was in bother the minute we sat down. It was the last night of the town's festival and everyone was gathered in the local community hall for an evening of food and celebration. After a tour of the many street sellers and sideshows dotted around the perimeter of the outside of the building, we sat down to a meal followed by a variety of items performed for the audience and clearly very enjoyable. But I didn't understand a word. After all, we were in the middle of France, somewhere in the Loire valley, in a little village called Bracieux and my sum total of French vocabulary had been left sitting on a classroom desk over twenty years earlier, never to be returned to in the the intervening period. We had taken about twenty pupils and our staff on a reciprocal visit to our french link school and on the last evening I knew time was running out for our Gallic cousins to involve their Irish friends in some fun. So when the parade of what looked like dignitaries entered to some rather less than formal music, I knew the time, or more correctly my time had come. Within minutes, amid a babble of words, some of which I remembered from my old classroom, I heard my name being uttered, then I was ushered towards the platform. And there, in that little corner of France, I became an honorary member of the Bracieux Frog's Legs eating society, much to the amusement of our party and the others gathered. And I have the presentation plate to prove it!

I entered my first Chinese restaurant when I was about sixteen. It was in the days when they only seemed to occupy an upstairs floor in a building and when people were still deeply suspicious about the shape of the meat in their meal. But I had to go all the way to the Isle of Man on a day trip to get my first taste of Chinese cooking and then my mate and I only ordered Chicken Maryland anyway. At that time I don't recall where the closest Chinese restaurant was to home but it might have been the one we were sitting in that day. Yet it was so good, we went back in the late evening for another dose of the same, before shuffling back down to the docks and a slightly uneasy ride home. It was probably a couple of years before I darkened the door of such an oriental food house again, this time in Chester, but the Chicken Maryland tasted just as good there. So it was after quite a few visits to such premises in various locations, having tasted a variety of Chinese renditions of that English dish that I eventually noticed there were other items on the menu that I might actually enjoy. Still, I'm sure I was well over twenty before I realised that Noodles wasn't just the name of a Chinese man's cat, but an entirely delightful dish to enjoy. Since those early days, I have had the opportunity to sample both Oriental, Indian, Australian, French, German, Dutch, Danish, American, Spanish, Portuguese, African, Caribbean and a few other international cuisines and cultures but it all started out in a little island lying somewhere between here and England, when I discovered that there was more to life than the humble potato, even though it was always good enough for my dad.

As we move further into the new millennium and experience at first hand the rapidly expanding breadth of nationalities and their associated cultures, cuisines and languages, that live in our local communities, how important it is to embrace the wealth of diversity that it brings to our society. How many of us now choose to eat in a 'foreign' restaurant, almost in preference to a 'home grown' one and how many of the latter now include noodles and the like as part of the fare that they serve. Yet how important also to remember that embracing culture and cuisine is very different to embracing the religion of others. God makes it quite clear when He issues the command, not a suggestion, to His people by saying, 'You shall have no other gods before me.'

As I watch those children in our school, whose families have come here for a different and hopefully better life, I see them willing to respect and experience our culture but I also see them as people whom God loves and wants to save. Two lovely verses in Romans explain perfectly why we are all equal in His sight.In chapter 23 Paul says, 'This righteousness from God comes through faith in Jesus Christ to ALL who believe. There is no difference, for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.' And in chapter 10 he writes, 'For there is no difference between Jew and Gentile—the same Lord is Lord of ALL and richly blesses ALL who call on him, for, everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved.' Are you still hungry for Him?

N is for NEWCASTLE

I have a photograph in one of my albums, one of those little ones that measured about four inches by three and was black and white. The little album had a creamy brown cover and held about a dozen or so of these glossy images and apparently that is the way they came back from the developer so that the contents of a single film were all enclosed in one neat package. Mum had a whole array of such albums, which she then proceeded to stick in a larger album, about four or six to a page, so that when you turned over a leaf, it took ages to then inspect each individual set of prints, but it was great fun reminiscing. And of course, in the case of this particular photograph, nostalgia was what it was all about. There were four people in the photograph, three women and one man though the man beside mum was not her husband and I'm not so sure that he even knew the picture was being taken, even though his wife was in the centre of the shot. Anyway, several things struck me about the picture apart form its monochrome setting. Clearly it was a day of much happiness even accounting for the obvious windy conditions and the ladies in question were determined to enjoy their day out to Newcastle as they posed on the wall that once ran along the edge of the front, a wall that many of us ran along from one end to the other every time we went there on the Sunday School excursion. But the other thing that struck me more than anything was that everyone in the photo was most likely younger then than I am now and I considered them all to be old at the time. Of course I was only about seven or eight then but it does come as a shock just how quickly time passes.

The day out to Newcastle was a real event. For many, it was the event of the summer, in a time when holidays, never mind foreign ones, were much more rare and money was less plentiful or should I say, obtainable than it is now. It was an early start, usually about half past eight in the morning and always involved a train of cars and a packed bus of children heading along the winding road towards the Mourne mountains. And you always knew that you were nearly there when you rounded that bend and saw the green, white and orange flag painted on the side of a rocky outcrop, high up on a hill. After arriving, there was little time to get adjusted to the spectacular views of sea and sand before filing into a local church hall that had been taken over for the morning by the leaders and then served with tea, sandwiches and buns before being let loose around the town. Usually somebody organised games down on the beach in the afternoon, but otherwise it was a quick scan along the shop fronts, into the toyshop, sweet shop and amusements before stopping at the open window of an ice cream parlour and leaving with a mountainous ninety nine. And for some reason I always seemed to get my hands on a 'lucky bag' in the toy shop and the great thing was that the element of initial surprise more than made up for the contents of the bag. By seven o'clock, full of sweets, ice cream and chips, we were all heading for the cars and bus and the whole thing was over by nine, with a quick bath, Sunday School lessons for the next morning and off to bed.

I have another photograph like the one above and there are four or five men sitting, rugless, on the same wall just a few feet away. They from the same group and just as young and fresh as the women but, you know what, out of the two photographs, only one is still alive. Isn't life brief. And isn't tomorrow so uncertain. James writes 'Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.' As I look out these cold April mornings and see the remains of an early morning mist dissolve before my eyes, I understand exactly what he is saying and yet so often we plan our lives and our careers as if they were never going to end. As I enter another day into unknown territory, I thank God that He has helped me to recognise my priorities in life and given me an assurance that when the worries and troubles of this world are over for me, that my life is still only just beginning. John records the words of Jesus who says' I tell you the truth, he who believes has everlasting life.' What a wonderful place that will be in the land, as the hymn writer says, 'where we'll never grow old.'

N is for NODDY

OK so you know the joke already, but just in case there is someone out there who has been living on a desert island for the past fifty years, here it is again. 'Why have all the elephants got big ears?' 'Because Noddy won't pay the ransom!' There, I feel better now that I've shared that with you, but now on to more important things. Noddy was one of those characters that filled my afternoons on the television, driving around in his little yellow and red car and annoying the life out of somebody, mostly PC Plod but also his friend Big Ears. He was a little wooden boy who lived in a house for one in Toyland and he got his name from the fact that his head was on a spring and wouldn't stop nodding when he got excited about something. To compound the problem, that nodding made the little bell on his hat ring too. His early history is fairly interesting, having been carved by a woodsman but then he ran away from home after the man also carved a wooden lion which scared him to pieces. Eventually, Big Ears, a friendly gnome, found him and took him to live in Toyland because he thought he was a toy. And there he lived happily next to Mr and Mrs Tubby Bear and their mischievous son Master Tubby. It is a tribute to Noddy and his creator Enid Blyton that almost sixty years after he started out, children still loves to hear, read and watch stories about the little wooden boy and his friends.

Noddy wasn't part of the whole Watch with Mother scene which included such delights as The Flowerpot Men, The Woodentops and Andy Pandy. I could never really understand why they called it Watch with Mother because mum really never had time to sit down and view the television, but was happy enough that I was occupied in front of the screen while she got other household chores done. I guess it wasn't any different from a lot of other homes. Maybe a better name would have been, 'Just sit there and watch that television while Mother makes your tea.' I loved Andy Pandy, especially the theme tune but Teddy was a bad rascal most of the time and Looby Loo was just, well, plain loopy. Everyone always sat right to the end of the programme just to hear 'Time to go Home' and see Andy and Teddy disappearing into their picnic basket. And who can forget Buttercup the cow and Spotty Dog in the Woodentops, with his strange jerky movements and equally odd bark. He was always announced as 'the very biggest spotty dog you ever did see.' And while daddy was bit of a country bumpkin with accent to match and never wore a shirt, the rest of the family spoke rather good English and were always sensibly dressed. But best of all were Bill and Ben the Flowerpot Men whose total grasp of language amounted to two words, 'flobadob' and 'flibadob'. Yet both these words could be used in any context as substitutes for any other word in the English language and they merrily communicated all manner of things without having to extend their vocabulary. They lived at the bottom of the garden, in flowerpots and on either side of what resembled closely an overgrown daisy but answered to the name of 'Little Weed.' I often wondered why they just didn't pull her up and get rid of her but then she was their wake up call when the gardener left and their warning call when he was returning so I reckon there is no point in cutting of your nose to spite your face.

Anyway Noddy, Bill and Ben, Andy Pandy and Spotty Dog all remind me of a time long ago when life seemed to be much more simple and when decisions and issues did not crowd the day. A time when you didn't see the strings they were attached to because you didn't want to believe the puppets weren't real. And for others, maybe they never saw the strings anyway. No, nothing got in the way of your enjoyment.

I was reading the other night of the parable that Jesus told about the good seed landing on different types of ground and yet on only one type of ground did it flourish, which the Bible refers to as 'good soil.' I wonder what made it good soil. Maybe it was because nothing else was competing for the nutrients that the seed required and maybe all the weeds had been removed or as yet hadn't had a chance to take root. Maybe because it was moist soil, with some shelter from storms and too much heat but at no point is there any indication that the seed was bad. Maybe I enjoyed all those programmes years ago because nothing else had tried to compete with them for my attention. And maybe when people hear about Jesus when they're young it has such an impact for the same reason but as they grow up, too many other things crowd our lives and cloud our vision until He is squeezed right out. Jesus said, 'I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.'

You know, I never forgot Noddy and my childhood heroes on television, even though so many other things cluttered my years since. And despite all that happens, we never forget Jesus and it's never too late to find that childhood faith again. What have you carved out for your future? Seek the Lion of Judah.

N is for NAAMAN

Dad rarely left Northern Ireland on his travels, be they business or pleasure. He was well into retirement before he took his second holiday, the first one having been sort of necessary as it had doubled as his honeymoon. For that special occasion he and mum had driven all the way to Scotland, not literally you understand, but they seemed to spend most of their time around the west coast in a lovely little place called Largs, that I got to visit many years later, when we took the class to a permanent Viking display that is housed there. They would return to Scotland several more times with another couple for their joint summer holidays and each time became a little more adventurous but the closest I think they ever got to England was a visit to Gretna Green, though they had no need of the wedding chapel by that stage. No, dad was always happier at home and probably never really understood why his other brothers and sister were so keen to jet off to the sun, when it was the same one that shone down on him in his own garden, even if it did seem slightly cooler. And after all, why go to a foreign country where you can't speak the language, eat the food or understand the money, just for the sole purpose of coming home burnt to a crisp, when you could have an enjoyable time in Portrush or Newcastle and not have the hassle of queuing in airports and being herded around like the cattle he used to prod on to the lorry. I guess he had a point m, you know and , at the end of it all, he never did step inside an aeroplane.

I had a friend once, who unfortunately, during the period that I knew him, developed cancer for a second time in his life. The prognosis was not good and as the days progressed , so did his illness, until it became clear that he would soon be reaching the point of no return. No longer did the treatment bring the same relief as it once had done and despite his best efforts at continuing to work, it was clear that he was struggling. I told him about my friends who had the gift of spiritual healing and whose gift I had experienced personally and he seemed interested if a little unconvinced, since the medicines were having less impact and he knew his greatest struggles still lay ahead. Eventually he asked me to set up a meeting with them and one evening paid a visit to their house. They prayed together, laid hands on him and had a long conversation about his illness and his life and he left, somewhat upbeat from his experience. But healing didn't come and eventually, many months later the illness overtook him. But it emerged much later that his reason for the visit was not that he expected to be completely healed but to obtain enough healing so that he could continue his treatment at the hospital.

He came to mind again as I thought of Naaman, that great commander of the army of Aram, but whose body was ravaged by leprosy. And when he came to Elisha and the prophet told him to go and wash in the local river Jordan, not the cleanest of waters, he was less than impressed to say the least, citing that his own, clean rivers back home would have been just as suitable in which to wash and be cured. Yet his own servant eventually talked some sense into him and told him that he was basically too proud because Elisha hadn't told such a powerful man to do some great thing. And of course when he did dip in the Jordan river , this disease completely disappeared.

What a lesson. You see, I don't think the healing is the important part of this story at all. It's all about obedience, isn't it. Not seeing something from your point of view, but from God's side. And anything less than total obedience doesn't bring the blessing that God can give. But there's even more to it than that. Not for one moment do I think Namaan doubted that he would be healed for he was pretty sure that bathing in his own choice of river back home would have done the trick. And I reckon, all of us who believe in God's power don't doubt that He can do great things in our lives. It's just that sometimes we want Him to do it our way. And finally, what a simple instruction, 'Wash and be cleansed' is to obey but so few there are that want to follow it, often looking for some more complicated or important thing to do to reach God. Revelation 1 v 5 and 6 says. 'And from Jesus Christ, who is the faithful witness, and the first begotten of the dead, and the prince of the kings of the earth. Unto him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in his own blood.' The Psalmist also writes, 'Wash away all my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin.' It's too simple to ask Jesus to wash and cleanse us with His blood when the rivers of penance, church position, pilgrimages, sacred vows and money giving make us feel we are actually doing something for our salvation. But we can't earn anything when it's given by grace.

If Naaman hadn't obeyed, no doubt his leprosy would have eventually taken its toll on his earthly life. If we don't 'wash and be cleansed' the result will be much more eternal.

N is for NEWS

I remember exactly where I was when the news filtered through about the assassination of the President of the United States, John F. Kennedy. It was a Friday night in November, sometime after ten o'clock, as we walked back to our car, after a congregational meeting and supper in our local church, that Jack walked up to my dad and announced 'President Kennedy's been shot.' I was only about seven then and it was the first time I had ever heard of the man but, like most people, the whole event and its ramifications would be a part of my life for ever as the world explored the grainy camera footage, the conspiracy theories, the Warren Commission and the main players and followed the tragic experiences of the whole family over the following years. The episode had happened just after midday in Dallas but without internet, twenty four hour news bulletins and the like, somehow we had missed the initial announcement that probably covered our television screens and radios around tea time. Yet all these years later, I never forgot where I was that night nor the names of Lee Harvey Oswald and Jack Ruby.

But that wasn't the only thing that made the news on the twenty second of November, though it's the one we all remember. But twenty seven years later, Britain's only female Prime Minister would announce that she was resigning her position and five years after that historic event, Rosemary West, Britain's most notorious female serial killer would be jailed fro life for her part in the murder of ten people. Two years later Michael Hutchence, lead singer with INXS would be found dead in his room and exactly forty years after JFK England would win the Rugby World Cup in Sydney, though of all those events, the latter is the only one that I know where I was when it happened.

Yet I think there are other momentous events that many people will recall exactly their location when the news broke. For instance 9/11, man landing on the moon, England winning the soccer World Cup in 1966, the deaths of George Best, Pope John Paul II and Princess Diana, the Omagh bomb, to name but a few.Sometimes I think we become obsessed with news. Dad certainly was. He usually listened or watched about seven or eight bulletins every day as well as reading two newspapers and during the Troubles of the last forty years in our province, almost every day there was something to read about. Often you woke up in the morning, wondering what terrorist activity had taken place during the night and whether it had happened on your own doorstep or to someone you knew. At other times you heard the explosion or the rattle of gunfire and watched every bulletin until what you heard or saw became news to everyone else. But it wasn't all bad news and to their credit, the television channels always searched high and low to find some item just to lift the constant cloud of dismay that seemed to cover everyone. Then there was the local news that never made any paper. News of somebody being ill, or getting wed or a new baby being born or a marriage falling apart or somebody starting a new job or buying a new car or moving house. For others it was passing an exam, getting engaged, going somewhere exotic on holiday, crashing their car, baling their hay, mowing the lawn or getting a new dog. News meant different things to different people and was never universal and all the paper in the world could be filled with news stories that never made the newspaper, radio or television but were important enough to the communities where they happened.

And of course in the little community around Galilee, the most important news was of a carpenter's boy who claimed to be the Son of God and whose life was certainly different. And though the whole world didn't know it at the time, several individuals who knew Him well, thought it important enough to record it in their writings that later became known as the Gospels or Good News about Jesus Christ. And what was that Good News? John, one of His closest followers, puts it best in the Bible's most famous verse, 'For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life.' And the real good news in that verse for you and I is that little word 'whoever' or as it appears in other translations, 'whosoever.' What an inclusive word, for not only doe it mean everyone but it also mean wherever and whenever. So, whoever you are, wherever you are and whenever you decide to believe, Jesus is ready to accept you and give eternal life. Now that's what I call good news.

N is for NAME

I almost bought a key ring this morning. It was the sort that had your name emblazoned all over it. I guess I'm a bit of a sucker for things like that, you know, anything that portrays my name or that of any of my family. Look, it can be key rings, birthday mugs, drinking glasses, name plates that stick to a door, lighters, wooden ornaments, combs, wallets, pens, indeed anything that has been personalised. But this one really appealed to me, maybe because I had a couple of pound coins in my pocket that weren't doing anything worthwhile and the price tag was only £1.99. And of course, I could see how useful it was going to be for it was no ordinary personalised key ring. No, this one had my name on a little piece of metal, which was exactly the same shape and size as a pound coin and the publicity at the top of the display said something like, 'never be without a pound for your shopping trolley.' And how often have I arrived at one of the local supermarkets with loose change in my pocket but no pound coin to release the trolley from its queue and then having to queue myself at another shop to try and exchange some of my silver for a suitable coin, with the shop assistant less than pleased that I'm not actually buying anything. Anyway, I looked at for a long time, lifted it off its pedestal, made sure it was exactly the same dimensions as one of my two pounds and though to myself, 'how handy and how innovative, I wish I'd thought of that.' Then I noticed another one that had my wife's name where mine had been and I began to think whether I should buy one with her name or my name and since I usually, but not always got the groceries, wouldn't that make more sense, except on the occasions when I wasn't there and she didn't have a pound. Are you still with me? Well, I thought about it some more, ten got my two pounds out, but then realised that this device was going to cost me that amount of money while the shopping trolley doesn't actually cost anything at all. So I set both back in place and left, two pounds richer than I might have been!

Names are so important but sometimes I wonder how much common sense some parents exhibit when they go about choosing names for their babies. Everyone knows about Brooklyn, Romeo and Cruz and I'm sure, who has daughters called Fifi Trixibelle, Peaches Honeyblossom, and Little Pixie or Poppy Honey and Daisy Boo, but what about celebrity parents who give such handles as Indiana August, Coco Riley, Amber Rose, Saffron Sahara, Tallulah Pine, Pilot Inspektor, Piper Maru, Sailor Lee, Free, Moxie CrimeFighter, Ever Gabo, Audio Science, Sage Moonblood, Dweezil , Moon Unit and Racer Maximilliano to their offspring. It may seem a great idea at the time but I can just imagine morning roll call in my class, asking if Diva Muffin is absent today or trying to find out if Spec Wildhorse has remembered his homework. How do you address such names in class? Maybe you call them by their initials but that mightn't work for every kid, especially ones with two Christian names of Billy and Oliver!

I used to teach three brothers many years ago called Wayne, Duane and Shayne but their mum was a country and western freak so I forgive her for that but even my maternal grandmother had a penchant for naming her sons with different titles, such as Winston Spencer after Mr. Churchill himself and Haydn, strangely enough not after the famous composer but some Welsh army bloke who was stationed locally during the war and used to get his tea in my grandparent's cafe. And I know that we considered a wealth of different names for our own two lads when they were born and I had visions of second son being given a middle name of a New Zealand rugby player at the time but we couldn't spell Tuigamala. Only joking of course - in case my son has nightmares about that one.

When Isaiah foretold the birth of Jesus, he referred to him by many name when he wrote, 'his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.' Paul, in writing to the Philippians, said 'Therefore God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name that is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.' What is our reaction when we hear His name? Do we revere it, realising that He was God in human form or do we dismiss him as a good man and a prophet or just another religious fanatic. But unless we can call Him Redeemer, Saviour and Lord, we can never call Him Friend. What's in a name? Just Eternity!

N is for NOAH

Methuselah was the oldest man in the Bible living to the grand old age of nine hundred and sixty nine. He didn't start his family until he was one hundred and eighty seven years old, when along came baby Lamech. Longevity seemed to run in the family because Lamech was over one hundred and eighty before he had his first child, whom he called Noah and then he lived for almost six hundred more years, but didn't quite make his dad's total. Noah was even less interested in starting a family and waited until he had reached five hundred before three sons, Shem, Ham and Japheth were born in seemingly quick succession. As regards those first five hundred years, we know absolutely nothing about Noah, how he spent his time, what he did for a job, when he got married, who his friends were but he must have been doing something right because God had noticed him and clearly he believed strongly in the God of his ancestors even when everyone around had completely lost all faith in a higher power or Creator. I guess that's why the sixth chapter of Genesis states that 'Noah found favour in the eyes of the Lord.' And he had three qualities that anyone would love to have said about them. First he was righteous. My dictionary tells me that means to be morally right, virtuous and law-abiding. But he was also 'blameless among the people of his time.' That's suggests to me that he was innocent of any wrong doing and everybody knew exactly what sort of an upright person he was. But he also 'walked with God' just like his great grandfather Enoch. Yet God never called him to do anything until he was well over five hundred years old! I guess he needed all that time to be prepared for the mammoth task ahead.

So here's the deal, Noah. Build a boat longer than a football pitch, half its width and almost the height of a penalty box if you set it up on its end. Oh and by the way, stick a roof on it but leave a gap between the walls and the roof of about the length of the average DVD player, all the way around. Oh yes and you need to have three storeys on board and bring your joinery tools and make a whole pile of different rooms on all three levels. Then get out the tar brush and paint the whole thing inside and out. And don't forget you're going to need a big door in the side. Why? Because it's going to be your home for a while. Why so many rooms? Because you won't be all alone. Yes the wife and the daughters in law and Shem, Ham and Japheth will all be there too. What do you mean you don't so many rooms? Didn't I mention the animals? Yes, there'll be a few animals on board as well. How many? Oh, only two of every sort, a male and a female please. How will you get them all? Oh they'll just arrive at the right time. Food? Yes you'll need a lot of that, for yourselves and all the animals. For how long? Oh, about eight months, give or take a few days. I know that's a lot of food and water and maybe a lot of animal droppings to sort out but you'll get by OK. Why am I doing this? Because man has become so evil, I have decided to destroy my greatest creation, except for the few inside the boat. How will I do it? What do you think the boat's for? Yes I know you're miles away from the sea but there'll be enough rain to create a flood big enough to cover Mount Ararat and drown everything else. Why have I chosen to save you? Well I have had five hundred years of watching you.

Well those words aren't exactly God's conversation with Noah but I reckon you get the drift of what was said. Anyway it's Noah's response that's more important and this time it's a direct quote from verse 22 of chapter 6, 'Noah did everything just as God commanded him.' No indication of questioning God or doubting what he says or just picking the bits that suited. Noah just got on with doing exactly as God intended. After the Flood Noah lived to the ripe old age of nine hundred and fifty, only nineteen years less than his grandfather but nobody in the future would ever outlive them. God had already decided that one hundred and twenty years would be the absolute maximum and for most, a whole lot less. But even after living a life so close to God, Noah was still only human and one of his last recorded incidents was not exactly one to be proud of, as he lay drunk and unclothed outside his tent. Yet, despite that and because of Noah's faithfulness, God did send the rainbow as a sign that he would never destroy the world in the same way again.

Do we question God or do we faithfully respond to His words? I have learned from Noah that no believer is beyond falling but no Christian is beyond calling. But have things really changed that much. Jesus says, 'As it was in the days of Noah, so it will be at the coming of the Son of Man. For in the days before the flood, people were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, up to the day Noah entered the ark; and they knew nothing about what would happen until the flood came and took them all away. That is how it will be at the coming of the Son of Man.' It's not enough to see the rainbow. Like Noah, you need to discover its Maker.

N is for NEVER

Roger Miller wrote the love song but for most people around my age it's Donny Osmond whom we remember singing it. It was titled 'The Twelfth of Never' and the whole idea was that the date of the twelfth of Never would be when the writer would stop loving his girlfriend, which of course meant never. I hated the song, it was just far too slushy for a seventeen year old, still coming to terms with spots, hair dryers and deodorant and for whom, after shave lotion was a bit of a misnomer.

Neverland is a different thing altogether. It is a dream world that lives in the minds of our young where people no longer get any older and live as children for ever, a sort of immortality and everything they wish for ends up in that fantasy world. Many times, all of us have longed to visit that world and most of us probably did some nights while we slept but the truth is we never did get to stay there for ever and the passage of time eventually took away our dreams and closed the door on Neverland for ever.

I suppose life is a mixture of all the things which happen that you never expect and all the other things that you plan never to do. I never expected that I would be teaching in the primary school, on my doorstep, where I learned to read and write and I really never expected that I would be working there with my wife. I never thought that my present home would be right in the spot where an orchard once stood and where I often played in the evenings and I never imagined that two young lads would be running over the same grass that I used to tread as a child. And though I knew my hair would probably fall out some day, I never expected it to go white long before it waved goodbye and it's still waving though less wavy than it once was. I never thought that the years between twenty and fifty could go so fast and I never realised how quickly twenty five years of marriage could pass nor how quickly two young boys would leave childhood behind and grow into young men. When I was young I never thought about my parents getting old and never considered how much they gave to me that money could never buy and I suppose when they did eventually reach their senior years, I had grown accustomed to seeing them ageing but I never expected them both to pass away in a short space of time. And I guess we never really knew how our boys would grow up but I think we never realised just how much God was in control of everything and I never stop thanking Him for blessing us through our children.

I never really planned to be a teacher when I was younger but since I became one, I never really thought about an alternative career. There are other things that I never plan to do either. I'll probably never bungee jump, mountain climb, complete a marathon, go on a cruise, swim with dolphins, learn a new language, drink Guinness, go into space, buy a cow, hire a boat, ride a horse or buy a Donny Osmond album. But I can't say for certain because I could change my mind, though I'd probably need to drink a lot of Guinness before I'd contemplate doing any of them!

I never really thought that I would be writing a blog either but maybe I never realised how many people might just come across it sometime and maybe would be persuaded to think about their spirituality through something they would read. You know it really doesn't matter whether a reader agrees or not with what I write every day, but if it makes them think about God, maybe they'll just explore Him a bit more and find the answers that only He can provide. But a word of warning. I'm probably never going to live until one hundred and one, the age of Buster in last week's London Marathon. In fact, I'll never know how long I have left but I do know that many people never intend to leave their salvation until they're really old, it's just that one day merges into the next and they never get around to sorting it out. Unfortunately, some never get the opportunity. Jesus says a couple of very interesting things about the word never. 'I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.' Also He says 'Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will never pass away.' And when he proclaims 'I am the bread of life. He who comes to me will never go hungry, and he who believes in me will never be thirsty,' I thin kit's time we sat up and took notice. May you consider your relationship with God today and never have to hear those words on the last day, 'I never knew you.'

N is for NOBODY

What a popular, yet strange person Mr. Nobody is! If I ask a difficult question in school, Nobody puts his hand up. If there is a pencil missing, milk spilled, an incident of possible bullying or dinner money stolen, Nobody admits it immediately. When I set out the homeworks at the front, Nobody is rushing to lift one and if I ask who hasn't brought the school milk to the other classes, Nobody is sure to answer. You might think he is just the perfect pupil but not always. When I tell the class to sit perfectly still, Nobody moves and when I order everyone to be quiet, Nobody even whispers. It's as if he knows exactly the right moment to be good and when to misbehave. And he can't keep a secret either! Sometimes when Nobody is in the classroom, I like to listen to music and even sing along but I know Nobody will tell. And when I'm having my lunch in the office, Nobody is watching every move I make and every bite I eat. But I have to say he is clever. The other day I put a really hard Mathematics sum on the chalkboard and Nobody got it right and when I set the summer History exam, in a few weeks from now, all about Vikings, I just know that Nobody will get full marks.

Nobody lives in school too but he can be a bit of a pest.I don't know how he copes with the loneliness but some nights when I go into school, after dark, and Nobody is there and all I want to do is get some work cleared up, Nobody bothers me all night and then I just get fed up and go home. And when I arrive home and wife asks me who I was talking to on my travels, I just say 'Nobody' and then she gives me that funny look as if I'm telling her some sort of fib.

Sometimes it's nice having Nobody around, especially when Nobody believes me and understands me about something. And I guess there are some issues in life that you can share with Nobody but again that's usually because Nobody listens. Nobody is also a very thoughtful person. When mum and dad reached their more senior years, most nights of the week they sat in the house and Nobody called to see them. Now that our boys spend more and more time away from the nest, I know exactly how my parents felt because Nobody knocks at our door. And when Nobody calls, the nights can be incredibly long. You see, Nobody knows how important friends are for with Nobody about life can be pretty mundane.

But it's not all good news. When I was still not into my teens, mum bought a forty five single that was popular at the time,called 'Nobody's Child.' It tells the story of a young boy, living in an orphanage, who had no parents and never got to experience the real love that only mums and dads can give to their children. It's such a sad song, filled with tears and sorrow about loneliness, no comforting arms, words or smiles and someone to turn to when life's issues,even for a young kid, loomed on the horizon. Indeed he was a child wanted by Nobody and yet Nobody could have been a proper parent.

I'm sure I have done things, said things and thought things when Nobody was around but I'm sure somebody else knew about them all. I know Nobody told Him for God sees and hears every thing we do or think about, even when Nobody is there. Indeed He reminded Samuel that 'Man looks at the outward appearance, but the LORD looks at the heart.' He sees beyond the veneer we portray to others and knows the deep secrets of our hearts and minds.

The great thing about that song is that the young orphan recognised God for what He was and that in heaven he would be assured of a home where his heavenly Father would care for him better than any earthly parent. But to have that assurance we need to find God and His plan of salvation. And if we come in true repentance and faith, who will God reject. Nobody!

N is for NEIGHBOUR

He was a neighbour in every sense of the word. He lived about a quarter of a mile away but he couldn't have been any closer. Often he would call in to chat with dad about the price of cattle and to catch up on the news from around the countryside and almost always he stayed longer than he intended, though it was never unexpected. But he never seemed to be in a rush to get anywhere or to do anything. He just made time to spend with his neighbours. When dad needed help, he was there, when we needed to take cattle to market, his lorry was at the gate and when there was a crisis, he would drop everything and be ready and waiting for the call. In fact he was so concerned about being a good neighbour that quite often he neglected his own work in favour of helping others and so he never made his fortune. And it wasn't just the few families in the lane that he considered to be his neighbours, for there were many others, living miles away from his home, who found him to be a willing helper. Indeed distance made no difference for he to him, everyone who needed help was a neighbour, often to the detriment of his own enterprises.

He also had a passion for vehicles of various kinds, most of his farming machinery being second or third hand but always in good working order and he owned more cars than I can recall though none of them he kept for any length of time. Most were pretty well worn by the time they arrived at his doorstep so, wisely, he wasn't putting his life savings into something that would depreciate the minute he bought it. In fact it's unlikely that any of his cars had any depreciating value left, so he rarely sold one after he decided to change, for it was much easier to drive and park it along the hedge at the orchard that sat adjacent to the back of his homestead. So after quite a few years, that whole area resembled a car graveyard and I guess any vehicle that he owned probably knew it wouldn't be leaving. And even though at different times, his lorry, tractor and car were not the best risers in the morning, he just seemed to know how to start them when everyone else might have given up hope. Once I remember dad getting a call somewhere around midnight and having to drive twenty miles to lift him when his latest purchase had 'calved' at the side of the main road and ended up in the ditch. We brought him and his fiancee home that night but his car never followed. Still, he was a great neighbour, loyal to his friends and always helpful and I know dad missed him when he relocated to Scotland. Yet all the while he was away, he always came over to see his neighbours a couple of times a year and just recently moved back across the water to live in our province among old friends.

He was a neighbour in every sense of the word. Except he shouldn't have been. He was a Samaritan and the man he was just about to help was considered his worst enemy, a Jew. Other so called neighbours had made no effort to assist the badly beaten body that they passed on the road, even a minister turning a blind eye to the problem. But he wasn't like them and so wanted to help that he realised it was a risk to his reputation, if not his life and certainly he would gain no benefit from his actions, apart form the satisfaction if helping someone in need. It was all about self sacrifice, putting others before himself, using his money for someone else's benefit and really feeling compassion for those who find themselves in such situations. And doesn't it make you think about what a neighbour really is and more specifically, who is you neighbour. It's easy to be there for those who live in the same street, village or lane. Yes it's often self-sacrificial to help them but it's not an impossible task. Yet for many of us, to give the same level of commitment to those we don't know and those that we may not even like is much more difficult. Yet there is no doubt that Jesus told this story to convince us that there are no bounds to the goodness we should show to anyone in need. After loving God with all our heart, soul, strength and mind, isn't the second great commandment to ''Love your neighbor as yourself.' And in those very words, Jesus encompasses all those other commandments about lying, murder, adultery, stealing, coveting and honouring others in our family. So who is your neighbour and what have you done for them? Remember, God commands it.

N is for NIGHT

When I was much younger I wasn't particularly keen on night time at all, particularly when it was time to go to bed. That was the time when mum and dad often had visitors in and usually after a quick hello, it was an even quicker goodnight and we were sent packing with the express instruction not to return from whence we had come. Yet I remember vividly, on many occasions venturing down the stairs from the bedroom, often only one step every five minutes and with plenty of coughing, just hoping that mum might take pity on me and invite me to join the party. It never happened, though many times there were words strongly suggesting why I should get back beneath the covers before dad took it upon himself to put me there.

I don't know whether it was the darkness but there is no doubt that night time can manufacture all sorts of shadows and noises at just the most inopportune moment. Why, for example, don't floorboards creak during daylight? And how come our imaginations are so much better in darkness? Anyway, I guess over the years, experience is a big factor in getting used to night time and the many questions it can pose on the unsuspecting mind. And familiarity plays its part as well. I recall standing outside a lodge in a safari park in Africa, where we had been warned about the possibility of freely roaming lions parading past our door and for a long time in the early hours, listening to many unfamiliar noises and watching one pair of eyes watching us from the safety and dark camouflage of a group of trees. Definitely a slightly uncomfortable experience, if unforgettable. Generally, being in a strange place at night does bring its own level of discomfort and unease that daylight in the same spot does not cause. And even if the area is familiar, how often have you imagined at night that there is some evil lurking behind every tree, every wall, every hedge and every corner, just waiting to jump out and wreak havoc.


Yet our days are very definitely divided into things we associate with daylight and those that we confine to the hours of darkness. For many, school, work, business meetings, shopping, gardening, washing the car and many sports are all daylight activities while we devote our night times to relaxation, lighting the fire, internet surfing, having friends round, phoning relatives, listening to or playing music, going to church functions, to a concert or to the pub, watching television or a movie. We are indeed creature of habit and while the above lists are neither exhaustive nor inclusive of everyone, I think it is fair to say that the norm for many folks is not far away.


Yet I love the night and there is nothing better than sitting out at the picnic table, with a hot cup of coffee, on a night in any season, when the stars are all switched on and a canopy of lights further than the eye can see, just fills the sky in every direction and allows me to reflect on the magnitude of our own galaxy, those galaxies stretching towards infinity and of course the magnitude of a Creator, big enough to oversee the whole of His work and yet small enough to live in my heart and soul. Now that is something very special.


I was reading this morning in John 8 where Jesus says ' I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life' and I was struck by how much we depend on light during the darkness of night time. Maybe it never really comes home until the electricity stops working and we struggle on with the aid of a few candles, yet no matter how effective artificial light may be, it can never really take the place of the natural light of the sun. And so it is with Jesus, for the light of the Son of God, uncovers every single corner of our lives and exposes anything that we would try to hide in the shadows. I guess that's because with the light of the Son, there are no shadows and there is therefore nowhere to hide and as He says a few chapters hence 'I have come into the world as a light, so that no one who believes in me should stay in darkness.'


You know it is possible to struggle on in darkness and even to hide certain things from general view but why would you want to when Jesus can make everything clear. And of course the one thing that He makes more clear than anything else is that there is no other light that illuminates the road to salvation and reconciliation with God. And the good thing is He is ready to forgive us, day or night.

N is for NAIL

There's an old saying that 'real men don't eat quiche,' but I reckon 'real men don't have long nails' wouldn't be far behind. At the minute my right thumb nail has grown to a length of almost a whole centimetre beyond the fleshy part while most of the others are at least five or six millimetres long. My right hand looks disdainfully towards my left from time to time, where the combined length of all five nails above the flesh, is no more than a couple of millimetres. Yet it wasn't always so.

One of the first things I notice when I see a person's hands are the length of the nails and I'm probably a pretty good judge of those in our midst who are nail biters, having been apart of that group for many of my early years. Indeed, I was so afflicted by the biting craze that mum went to all sorts of lengths to stop it, using a variety of sour tasting potions, recommended by the chemist and also using the minister, who threatened to take points off my team at Campaigners if he could see any evidence of a chewed end. Needless to say, it worked for a while and the old nails did start to grow but a long nail often just became too appetising and before long I could be found gnawing away, sometimes until I went too far and small traces of blood could be seen appearing at the surface. And was it painful? The only remedy, apart from the obvious on of not biting, was to plunge the damaged finger or thumb into a bowl of cold water and keep it there for a while. Ah, what relief that brought, though it was only temporary and many nights I suffered the constant pulse like throbbing of a digit as I tried to find some comfort in sleep.

But the guitar changed all that. Once I found that it was possible to pluck the strings with individual fingers and then discovered that it worked much better if I actually had nails on the end, I never looked back and almost overnight, stopped the nail fest in favour of a bit of finger picking. But there is no doubt that to the casual observer, it does seem a little strange to have long nails on one hand and short nails on the other.

So after a childhood spent abusing my nails, I now go to great lengths to protect them, yet long nails and rugby do not really go together and many times at least one finger came a cropper either in a tackle or simply catching the ball. Nor is it advisable to work at lawnmowers or other engines or to try to lift concrete blocks, as metal and stone tend to be a bit harder and stronger than the Calcium rich deposits on the ends of my fingers. In fact, a broken or damaged nail can be a mini crisis and always requires immediate attention to prevent further damage. I've even been known to use a dab of superglue on the cracked part and then a quick smoothing with a nail file keeps it in check until the nail has grown sufficiently to properly correct the problem.

When I was very young, my dad used to visit an old lady for whom he bought cattle and where he also rented some land. He reliably informed me that she never washed and her hands were never clean. But she had an incredibly long thumb nail and he often told the story of watching her take freshly baked soda bread out of her oven and then cut it using her thumb nail. It was a rare combination but I can't remember if he was ever offered any of the sliced carbohydrate though out of good manners I reckon he would not have refused.

Two things. My nails are very strong and those of my wife are much more flexible and weak. I think it comes down to that fact that I drink a lot of milk and she doesn't so maybe she needs more Calcium! As a Christian I can't expect to be strong if I don't constantly feed on those things that make me strong. Proverbs 15 says 'The discerning heart seeks knowledge.' And Jesus said, 'Just as the living Father sent me and I live because of the Father, so the one who feeds on me will live because of me. This is the bread that came down from heaven. Your forefathers ate manna and died, but he who feeds on this bread will live forever.' And the Psalmist wrote 'God is our refuge and strength' while in Samuel we read 'God is my strength and power: and he maketh my way perfect.'

But also people wouldn't keep biting their nails if they didn't keep growing. And Satan keeps attacking those whom he sees growing in their spiritual walk.If you don't feel the darts, maybe you've just stopped growing. But the more you grow, the stronger you become if you depend on God for everything. Like I say, it's easy to spot when there's no growth!