O is for OLYMPICS

I once bought a television for wife. Now this is not meant to sound unusual as over the thirty or so years that we have known each other, I have on occasions bought the odd gift and it has often been a surprise. The television was certainly a surprise. It was way back in 1984 and we had been married for just over a year when our dentist in consultation with the doctors, decided it was time that wife had her wisdom teeth removed. For a woman this can be a risky operation as losing wisdom in any form is not advisable but having to go through pain to achieve this loss makes it seemingly unwise in the first place. Still, somewhere in the back of the male mind is the possibility that such an operation on the mouth area might render the patient speechless for a few days during the recovery period, or at least a reduction in the number of words uttered per minute. Weighing up the situation, I encouraged her to take the dentist's advice and go for it. It was back in the days when Musgrave hospital in Belfast resembled an army training camp with a whole village of Nissan huts enclosing the main wards, corridors and some operating theatres. It was a complete maze inside, in need of a severe make over but the work that was done by the doctors and nurses was superb in every way. It was also back in the days when getting wisdom teeth removed required several days in hospital, an operation under general anaesthetic and a recovery period before release, not like today, when the pressure of lack of beds almost means you could be wheeled out to the car after your operation. When I hear of people having their wisdom teeth removed these days, I squirm and frown and offer sympathy but most folks have them removed by their own dentist unless there is a more difficult extraction.

Anyway, back to the television. Our house was cold and I mean, cold. Indeed the only really warm place in the house was under cover of the bedsheets, so it occurred to me that as wife would be spending some time on the mattress in days following her operation, how nice it would be if she could lie there and watch television. The fact that it was almost the end of July and the bedroom was like an oven didn't deter me from my intention to have a television in the bedroom before she returned to base. The presence of an aerial socket was certainly an incentive but maybe not as big a one as the Olympic Games that were just about to start. So I again weighed up the situation thinking carefully about those lonely nights I would have to spend in the house on my own when my wife of just one year was far away in Belfast. I then began to think even more carefully about those Olympics, beginning in Los Angeles and because of the time difference, being broadcast live to GB from just before midnight and into the early morning. And I thought of the perfect companion a television might be for a lonely husband, who could watch live sport into the wee small hours and time apart from my beloved would pass more quickly. So I bought a television. And do you know, I really got hooked on swimming that year, watching every heat and final until about three o'clock in the morning, as well as glimpses of other sports that were being shown during the first week. For those of you who can't remember or just don't care (wife belongs to the latter category), the 1984 Olympics were the games of Victor Davis, Carl Lewis, Mary Decker and Zola Budd, a young Steve Redgrave on his way to first Olympic glory and an older Daley Thompson having his second triumph. And we saw for the first time, a women's marathon and the contorted smiles of the synchronised swimmers.

But back to the television. Wife was tremendously impressed with my show of undying love toward her and for days enjoyed the comfort of a warm bed and a glowing screen but I think it eventually began to dawn on her, and of course it took more time after having those wisdom teeth removed, when I continued to watch the box into the early morning, that maybe I also had an ulterior motive for my purchase. I have no comment to make.

So what are our motives when we do things. IS it because we really care about others or is it sometimes for self glory or self promotion or the praise of others. I'm not always sure. Jesus tells us in Matthew ch 6, 'And when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by men. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full.' When we give to others do we do it in secret or for all to see, when we help the poor or needy, will everyone know about it and when we help others to salvation, do we actually feel elevated about ourselves, .when it is only by God's grace that we are saved. If you will truly follow your Master, hide the words of David in your heart as he spoke to Solomon, 'Serve him with wholehearted devotion and with a willing mind, for the LORD searches every heart and understands every motive behind the thoughts.' There's more than a gold medal waiting.

O is for OPPORTUNITY

All the talk in school this week has been about the television show, 'Britain's got Talent', a contest that isn't just based on how well you can sing or dance but covers the whole spectrum of variety entertainment with such diverse acts as magicians, acrobats and performing animals competing with the usual posse of singers, dancers and musicians for that coveted final spot. It's the brainchild of Simon Cowell but those of us with long memories and many birthdays recall a very similar programme that disappeared from our screens in the late seventies after a run of over fifteen years. I remember Opportunity Knocks for several reasons. First, its presenter, Hughie Green, already famous as host of 'Double Your Money', used to wink his way through the programme with an over use of the word 'friends' and then there was the 'clapometer', a strange sort of dial that used to appear unsteadily on screen and a rickety needle that used to ascend and descend the scale depending on how loudly the audience applauded each act. This was supposed to be an indicator how popular the act was and maybe also how good it was, but all you needed to do was to pack the audience with your friends on the night you were performing and you were pretty certain to make the needle rise higher than anyone else.

There were many great acts that started out their careers on the programme, such as Les Dawson, Little and Large, Peters and Lee, Frank Carson, Stan Boardman, Freddie Starr and Pam Ayres but the ones that stick out in my mind were those that found instant fame through the programme but discovered that it didn't really last more than fifteen minutes. Don't you remember Bernie Flint, the folk singer, who just seemed to win week after week, the pianist Bobby Crush, the child stars Neil Reid and Lena Zavaroni and of course Tony Holland the guy who appeared in his swimming trunks and flexed his muscles for weeks on end in rhythm with 'Wheels Cha Cha.' And I mean that most sincerely folks!

But it had plenty of competition from another programme, New Faces, run on the same lines that gave people such as Roy Walker, Michael Barrymore, Lenny Henry, Les Dennis, Victoria Wood, Showadywaddy, the Chuckle brothers (not Ian and Martin who weren't exactly chuckling at each other about that time) and Malandra Burrows who went on to star in Emmerdale but won New Faces before she was ten years old. The only difference between the two talent shows was in how the winner was picked, with New Faces preferring to have a panel some of whom were much more direct and uncharitable than Cowell ever has been and who also scored each act. On the other hand Opportunity Knocks host, Hughie Green always reminded the audience that the 'clapometer is only for fun' and encouraged folks at home to send in their votes on a postcard with the winner being announced at the beginning of the following week's programme.

How times have changed with phone lines and texts meaning that within the hour, we now know the result in most of the similar modern talent shows. But one thing hasn't changed and that is the desire of so many people to take advantage of the opportunity to find fame, even if it lasts a lot less than fifteen minutes. And while there are those who seek every opportunity to find favour and fame in man's eyes, our goal as believers should be to use our times as best we can in the service of our Saviour. Paul writes to the Christians in Ephesus, 'Be very careful, then, how you live—not as unwise but as wise, making the most of every opportunity, because the days are evil. Therefore do not be foolish, but understand what the Lord's will is.' And when the opportunity knocks to be a witness for Him, don't be distracted by the applause of man but know that the One whose opinion really counts as ready to bless His servant.

O is for ORANGE

We live in a strange country, where colour dominates much more than we think. For example, it's alright to wear the blue of Leinster but unlikely that the same folks would sport the blue of Linfield or Rangers and of course the reverse is also true. And many of us are happy to wave red scarves or wear red tops showing our allegiance to Manchester United or Liverpool but at home the same red of Cliftonville wouldn't be welcomed at Portadown and of course vice versa again. And the red flags that waved all over Cardiff to celebrate Munster's victory recently were not the red of Wales and wouldn't be seen in the hands of an Irishman on Six Nations day.

And while many who wear blue or red to follow their Irish League team here, proudly put on the green of Northern Ireland, there are others who wear red, that would never be seen wearing that green jersey but would happily wear a different green top with another emblem. And those same people prefer to follow the green and white hoops or the red of Munster but not the white of Ulster and possibly the blue of Leinster. Confused? I haven't started yet.

Beyond sport, we have men (and women) who wear orange and probably prefer red, white and blue together but only really like the white of Ulster on its own and also are likely to be keen on purple too. And when they have worn orange for a while, they may also get a liking for darker colours like black, in which case they are then called blackmen instead of orangemen, though to be honest, most of them are white men. Indeed the only blackmen on parade whose colour matches their name are usually visitors from another land and they are always made most welcome. And most blackmen parade on what is commonly called the last Saturday though you can take it from me that it never is the last one because I have lived through many of these and there is always another Saturday that follows the last one. Anyway, it would be fairly uncommon, indeed downright rare to see any green and white hooped tops on such occasions, though some might be spotted at a safe distance, but on another day, possibly only a day later those same tops might be exchanged for an orange top, though most of the men and women who wear orange on parade would be unlikely to be wearing those orange tops on any other day. And nor would the blackmen. And just to make it totally confusing, the green and white hooped wearers or the orange topped fans would not be likely to ear red, white and blue together but might wear any of the three on its own while the orangemen, not to be confused with the orange jerseys, would never think of waving a green, white and orange flag but find all three individual colours acceptable. So we can't even agree over orange or indeed green. Maybe that's the main reason that the national flag of Ireland has a rectangle of white separating those two colours, like a sign of peace.

However trivial it may seem to an outsider, colour in our country could have been a lifeline or a death sentence in the past and just because you were wearing orange didn't guarantee your safety for it was more about how you wore the colour and whether it was in a sash around your neck or a sports jersey. And the sight of a green and white hooped top to one wearing blue, never took account of the person, but only the colour he signified. Probably nowhere in the whole world does colour tells us so much about a person than here. I'm sure Johnny Cash had no idea how profound he was when he penned his song, 'Forty Shades of Green' about this island for I think sometimes we see the shade that we want to see and not the person.

Thankfully God keeps no record of the colours we wear nor of the shade of our skin. Indeed the word 'orange' never appears in the whole Bible and 'green' is only used exclusively in conjunction with plants. But He does have a particular interest in the colour of our hearts and that's why the prophet Isaiah records, 'Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.'

As I watched those Munster fans, including my minister, show their support with red flags, jerseys and scarves, I thought once more about nailing our spiritual colours to the mast instead of the colours of our community.

O is for ORCHARD

Home was once surrounded by orchards, full of old apple trees that had been there long before me and maybe even my dad. They carried a certain degree of mystery, almost like walking into a secret world, when you ventured through the gate. At times, in the early summer it was a world full of darkness as the canopy of leaves and branches from neighbouring trees intermingled and blocked out the sunlight and the grass and nettles wrong the trees and in the passageways between them, grew to a height that made it almost impossible to walk through the orchard, except along the tracks left by the sprayer. Then, as the harvest time grew closer, a tractor and mower would arrive and an hour or two later, the whole place was a joy to behold, still dark but with grass no longer than the average lawn. Yet it still held a certain mystery and apprehension to a young child, not knowing what was hiding on the other side of a thick tree trunk,for the area was well known as the haunt of badgers, foxes and the odd imaginary over sized hound! Little did I know at the time, that such creatures felt more fear than I did.

Most orchards are planted on a slope to help rain run off, but until you view some of the slopes from the height of a tractor seat, it's difficult to realise how steep some orchards actually can be. Many times I mowed the orchards around our house, ever watchful for the branches that suddenly appeared in front, just about neck level and the sudden drops or steep banks that often remained concealed beneath long grass.

There were great advantages in having an orchard close by, especially in the late summer and approaching autumn when the Bramleys were just perfect for cooking apple tarts and some of our uncles and aunts often seemed to be able to find an excuse to visit around this time, knowing that before they left for home, dad would have filled a small cardboard box or a couple of plastic bags with theses huge cooking apples, enough to last the whole of the winter. It was also a great place for hide and seek with the cousins when there was a distinct home advantage in such games. Also there is no greater feeling than crunching through the autumn leaves that form a brown and orange carpet or ambling across a snow or ice covered terrain sheltered by an umbrella of glistening, icy branches, frozen in time.

But it wasn't all good. Every time the sprayer arrived, mum had to bring in her clothes from the washing line as the fine mist often strayed from the adjacent orchard and settled on anything in its flight path. Thus windows often had a thin film of liquid on the outside which made them less than transparent. Also, because the orchard entrance required the machinery to pass through our yard, the concrete surface was invariably covered by two continuous tracks of muck and grass that once had its home beneath the trees. And of course since it almost always rained continuously during harvest season, more dirt than at other times seemed to end up on our yard.

Like any other enterprise, the orchard required continual attention, with winter pruning, weed killing, hedge cutting, spraying, grass cutting and replacing old trees all necessary chores. But you always knew when it was getting close to apple picking time for the farmer would arrive with a trailer full of ladders and buckets with special hooks and then a whole load of apple boxes, placed at strategic points throughout the orchard. Then the 'pullers' would arrive with their biscuit boxes full of sustenance and would plague mum at various times during the day to fill a flask with boiling water. Many of them had taken holidays from their main job, while others had 'signed off' for a few weeks to spend every daylight hour in the orchard, but a few took the risk of working while still drawing their dole money. I remember one day, when there was a raid by the dole office to catch those who were two timing and one of the raiders ordered my dad down off the ladder where he was pulling. Imagine his embarrassment and shock when he discovered that dad owned the orchard. I wasn't there just at that moment, but knowing dad, I'm sure the guy left with his tail firmly between his legs and his ears warmed.

But then came the day when the trees grew old, they began to produce less fruit, some died, the farmer made less money and because they were no longer of any use, he pulled them out. It reminds me of the parable Jesus told about the vine that had brought forth no fruit for three years and which the owner wanted to cut down. But his worker said, 'Sir,leave it alone for one more year, and I'll dig around it and fertilize it. If it bears fruit next year, fine! If not, then cut it down.' You know we all grow older and in our comfort zones there is a tendency to take it easy, to think that we've done it all and deserve a rest, but the truth is, that is when we start to produce less fruit for God. He may not cut us down, more likely he will give us another opportunity to be fruitful in His orchard.

And remember this, the big, old trees in the orchard may produce less fruit than they once did, but they usually still produce more than the young trees.

O is for OFFENSIVE

It's probably one of the best known stories that Jesus told during His time here on earth. At the time it was a comment on our social responsibility, our concern and compassion for others, the importance of living out our faith and not just paying lip service and about what or whom actually constitutes our neighbour. But mostly, it was about recognising that neither religion, race, nationality, gender or age should become a barrier to our commitment to help others. And while Jesus related the parable of The Good Samaritan to the Jews, underlining their requirement to show compassion to their greatest enemies of the time, the story could easily be transferred to modern day to confront Protestants and Catholics, Muslims and 'Christians', heterosexuals and gays, blacks and whites, feminists and male chauvinists, atheists and believers, rich and poor, young and old, Tutsis and Hutus, even rival football fans. Indeed any two groups that find each other offensive in some way.

I was reminded of the story today when a group form a church in USA visited our school and told the parable through a hastily organised drama sketch. It reminded me of a few years back when we used some of the pupils from school to make a video of the same story, calling it, rather appropriately, 'Neighbours', though any comparison with the acting on Ramsey Street was purely coincidental - ours was much better! Anyway, we used a bike instead of a donkey and the robbers were much more nineties than biblical in their dress though essentially when you've seen one robber, you don't want to see another! We got a handful of pupils from two schools with different religious backgrounds and asked them some 'staged' questions to which they had learned off answers to fit the overall script. But it did allow us to really explore who our neighbour actually is, what our responsibility should be and how we should react towards others. We even thought about those in the story who would have been expected to help and didn't, for whatever reason and so the job of rescuing the man was left an individual from his nation's greatest enemy. And in the midst of it all we asked why the man was carrying valuables in such a dangerous area, why he hadn't chosen a different route and what might have been the motivating factors behind the robbers' desire to steal and also to inflict wounds on their prey.

But this morning, with our visitors, the story was brought to me in a way that I had never really experienced before. Let me tell you, the guys from the States told the story wonderfully but it wasn't what they did or said that focussed my mind. As they asked for volunteers from the pupils to help with the drama, wife called up six individuals to help. Knowing the importance of acting out the story as it was read, another teacher and myself began to wonder why she had had chosen to of our foreign nationals to act. I thought to myself, 'how will they understand what is said?' And so the kids were dressed up for the occasion and the story was started and performed . But here's the strangest thing. Out of the six children who acted, the man left for dead by the robbers should portrayed by a Lithuanian boy in my class and the Samaritan who came to his aid was played by a Latvian girl. And as the narrator read his text, I was fixed on the words he spoke, when he said, 'imagine the only person who could help was somebody of another nationality.' Unknown to him, that was exactly what was happening in real life as two children from neighbouring countries played out the parable of The Good Samaritan right in front of our eyes. Historically the two nations haven't always been friends and though they are close neighbours and have long been good allies, the moment was not lost on me, though the narrator wasn't even aware that it had happened.

Hasn't God a wonderfully strange way of bringing home His point, even to those who think they know the story well. Wife had no idea why she had picked both children and certainly had no control over the fact that one would be portrayed helping the other. But it taught me this morning, once again, that God loves everyone, that nobody is beyond His salvation and indeed He wishes that everyone might be saved. That's why He is waiting so long before returning because, as Peter writes, 'The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.' Although some of the things we do might be offensive to Him, no human being is offensive to God. He is our example. Let us live our lives in His shadow.

O is for OVER

You should have seen their faces. In fact maybe you did. The clock showed just ten minutes left and their team were losing by three goals to one, the winner promoted to a higher league and the loser destined to another season in the lowest division. A mixture of despair, hopelessness and resignation written in their eyes, most probably divided in thoughts between waiting to cheer their team at the final whistle and leaving early to avoid the lap of honour by the victors. Then from nowhere, the ball fell to one of their players and seconds later was bulging in the net. Frowns changed to smiles, silence became cheers of encouragement and somewhere in their thoughts, a revival was not out of the question. Across the ground on the opposing terrace, songs of victory and undeniable support became muted, tension that had seemed to vanish with the third goal, returned and that element of doubt in their team's ability reflected in their less than convincing cheering. They needn't have worried, for the players on the pitch had more faith in their own ability than the supporters on the terrace and when it was over, they still had that goal to spare. Such was the excitement and the passion of all concerned, you would have thought this was a Champions League Final, but it was only the second division play off decider between Stockport and Rochdale, to decide who would get out of the old fourth division into the hardly millionaire row of division three, or in its modern, less demeaning reincarnation as division one.

Less than a week ago, like millions around the world, I had remained fixed on the television screen until late, though not as late as those at the game in Moscow, watching the thickness of a post deprive one team of victory in the penalty shoot out and a goalkeeper's glove secure victory for their opponents. A good friend, who supports the winners with a passion which still allows him to be objective in his opinions about his own and opposing teams, was already on his way out of the door, assuming that the game was over, when the cheer made him return to victory. In truth, all of us who follow sport, should know better than to believe any game is ended before the final whistle. Only weeks ago, I gazed in disbelief as Arsenal score a late equaliser at Liverpool to take them through to the semi final but in the few seconds that I left the room in despair, a penalty at the other end had totally changed the game again. It took me back almost twenty years to the night at the same ground when the same two teams battled for the league title but on that occasion, the Londoners scored in the last minute to claim the trophy. Or the night AC Milan had the Champions League won at half time but still contrived to lose it to the mighty Reds. Like I say, in sport, a game, a contest or a race is never over till it's over. Just remember Jonny Wilkinson, Red Rum, Wasps, Munster, Henman and yes, Manchester United, in Europe.

But when it is over, then it really is over and the sporting world is full of players, athletes, competitors and fans, for whom the words, 'if only' bring back memories of what might have been. Reporters, journalists, panel experts and commentators make a living out of analysing what might have been, where it all went wrong and how it could have been so different but all the discussion and arguments the recriminations and blame, the excuses and protesting will never change a thing for when the game is over, the result stands.

I'm always moved by that song, 'when it's all been said and done' ans while the lyrics reflect those of a believer who ponders whether they have given enough to Jesus, it is equally appropriate to those who as yet find themselves outside of God's kingdom. On that day when our life on earth is over and we stand before the risen King, all the excuses, blame shifting and pleading will not alter the result one little bit for the great Judge will already have decided our destiny. Jesus says, 'There is a judge for the one who rejects me and does not accept my words; that very word which I spoke will condemn him at the last day.' And John the disciple in his vision of the end days in the Book of revelation, records, 'And I saw the dead, great and small, standing before the throne, and books were opened. Another book was opened, which is the book of life. The dead were judged according to what they had done as recorded in the books.'

When it is over, it will truly be over. You know, nobody knows exactly the moment when a referee blows that final whistle and while he waits, there is always time to change the result. Don't wait till it's over.

O is for OUTSTANDING

The Guinness Book of Records calls him the world's greatest living explorer and not without some justification for Sir Ranulph Fiennes has been an outstanding individual during his life to date. Even his full name of Sir Ranulph Twisleton-Wykeham-Fiennes is outstanding but that pales into insignificance compared to his feats of endurance and exploration which have made hi a household name throughout the world. He was the first man to reach both north and south poles over the surface and to cross the Antarctic on foot and from the early sixties he has been an intrepid traveller, leading expeditions along the Nile by hovercraft and on Norway's Jostedalsbreen Glacier and he was part of the Transglobe expedition for three years, journeying over fifty thousand miles around the surface of the earth. Then in the early nineties he discovered the lost city of Ubar in Oman. But I think his greatest feat to date was in 2003 when, along with Mike Stroud, he took part in the Land Rover 7x7x7 challenge and together they completed seven marathons in seven days on seven different continents covering such diverse destinations as Patagonia, Falkland Islands, Sydney, Singapore, London, Cairo and New York. However what made this achievement doubly special was the fact that Fiennes had suffered a heart attack four months previously and had undergone a double by pass operation. More recently he has taken to exploring upwards as he Decided to climb the Eiger in order to raise money for Marie Curie Children's cancer and this despite his terrible fear of heights.

However it hasn't all been good news. In 2000 he made an attempt to walk to the North Pole without assistance but had to abandon his efforts when he suffered severe frostbite on his left hand while rescuing his sleds that had fallen through weak ice. On his return home he became impatient and in pain waiting for amputation surgery to his finger tips and so removed the offending digits himself with a saw! This had followed an earlier and successful attempt across Antarctica during which he and his comrade suffered frostbite and had to be rescued after completing their journey. As recently as 2005 he failed in his attempt to conquer Everest and only this morning had to abandon a further effort to climb the world's highest mountain as he hoped to be the oldest British person to do so and also raise a lot more money for charity. But even to get so close to the summit is an outstanding achievement in itself for a man on the verge of retirement age and suffering from vertigo, prostrate cancer and heart problems. So I salute his bravery, however foolish it may seem to some, his sense of adventure, his determination, but also his interest in others by his willingness to continue to raise money for worthy charities.

Fiennes is not alone in this world for being remembered for outstanding achievements. The names of Columbus and Magellan, Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins, Hillary and Tensing Norgay, Livingstone, Hudson, Lindbergh, the Wright brothers will forever be etched in our history because they possessed those same qualities in abundance. But away from such tales of adventure and exploration we also recall people like Dr Christian Barnard, Alexander Fleming, Edward Jenner, Louis Pasteur, Lord Lister and Marie Curie, whose outstanding pioneering work gave us all the opportunity of a greater quality of life. And I could go on, listing outstanding people in sport, music, business and every other sphere of life. But a word of caution. How many of these outstanding human achievements will God remember when we stand before Him.

The prophet Micah asks the question, 'With what shall I come before the LORD and bow down before the exalted God?' Jesus answers that question by saying 'I tell you, whoever acknowledges me before men, the Son of Man will also acknowledge him before the angels of God.' I love that old hymn which says, 'Nothing in my hand I bring, simply to Thy cross I cling.' And that's what He will remember, our faith in Him as our Saviour. Maybe that's something that is still outstanding in your life!

O is for OLDER

My sister is over two years older than I am, though she doesn't like to be reminded of such figures. In fact, on our respective birthday cards she is the more likely to stress the fact that I am getting older. Maybe it's just a woman thing but I think I'm the only member of our staff with my natural hair colour and I suppose I don't go to any great lengths to hide my age, and, anyway, looks can be incredibly deceiving. For some people age effortlessly while for others the getting older process is written all over the wrinkles on their faces. I suppose you can hide advancing years on the outside but internally, Old Father Time just marches on.

Often I like to remind wife that when we started to date, she was three quarters of my age, but when we married she was four fifths and now, in the year of our silver wedding anniversary, she is nine tenths of the age I have reached. I keep telling her she is getting closer so she must be growing older more quickly than I am, so I reckon if I live to be one hundred, she'll have already passed me. However, I might also add that to suggest such things to a lady is probably not a brilliant idea as it can cause strange reactions and might even lead to bruising or at the very least picture and no sound! Not that I'm speaking from experience, you understand, it's just a hunch.


But it is weird how one's vision of age changes as we get older and maybe also how others perceive us in a way that we don't see ourselves. Somehow, middle age just seems to land on your doorstep, without any warning. One day you're a twenty or thirty something and the next, you're no longer able to go to the young adults after-church coffee bar because all the younger set who were kids and teenagers yesterday, grew up overnight and give you the funniest looks. I think I first realised what older really meant, one day on the rugby field, when a mate, whom I had played in the same team since age twelve to our then position of moving back down through the teams at the club,had an altercation with his opponent and during the words that were exchanged he was referred to as a 'fossil'. Maybe it was because he had gone prematurely grey and maybe we all fell about laughing too much immediately after that, but it did stick as a sharp reminder that no matter who you are, there is always a younger pretender waiting, sometimes impatiently, for your throne.


The trouble is that life seems to move so fast, that I can recall vividly many of the thing I was doing when I was the age of our two boys and even now they are beyond the teenage years so I guess the eleven year olds in my class would consider them to be old too. I'm not even going to consider what they think of me, but the other week when it was my birthday and the whole school sang 'Happy Birthday' to me in Assembly, a primary one girl laughed uncontrollably through the whole verse and for a while afterwards too. Maybe I should be like a good friend of mine, who decided to stop having birthdays after he reached forty. Being older has many drawbacks. You can score goals and tries in your head but not on the pitch, you can race one hundred metres and still not be out of breath, though getting the car stopped quickly can be a problem. You can see the newspaper but you can't read it, you can see the film but you can't hear it, you remember your wife's birthday but forget to buy hr a present and, if you're waiting for your woman to get herself ready to go out, just double the time you used to give her when you first got married. But there are hidden advantages too. All those years of experience in life have taught you how to recognise a strange sound under the bonnet, how to advise your children so that they don't make the same mistakes you did and of course how to say the right things at the right time.


I guess if getting older has taught me anything it is to be patient, with my temper, with my words and with my actions. But it has also taught me that hindsight is a wonderful thing, for in looking back I can see how God's hand has been with me in the small things and the big decisions and that it is He who has taught me patience and hopefully grace toward others. But I think He also teaches me that getting older does not mean becoming less useful for Him but simply involves being used in a different way, possibly even a different sphere of service. People like Abraham, Sarah, Noah, Zechariah, Elizabeth, and Anna were all well advanced in years when God gave them a special job and while I haven't reached their senior years, I understand that God never stops working with us and we continue each day as we get older in the faith of trying to be more like Him. I suppose my prayer to Him would echo that of the Psalmist who wrote, 'Even when I am old and gray, do not forsake me, O God, till I declare your power to the next generation, your might to all who are to come.' OLDER? OR LED?

O is for OPEN

It was a bad habit to get into but it always saved a few seconds when time was of the essence though to be perfectly honest, when you're a student, time is hardly an important factor, apart occasionally from having to get an assignment in on time or being late for a lecture. So I just got into the habit and deep down, I knew that sooner or later, I would fall victim to my own stupidity. It was a Tuesday morning, I think and I had just parked the old Allegro in the car park, outside the university, jumped out hurriedly, though not even remotely late for the day's education and banged the door shut, while holding the outside handle, to save time in having to lock it with the keys. It was at this precise moment that I noticed the keys were still hanging from the ignition beside the steering wheel. A chill of panic rushed through my veins but then I quickly got things into perspective and realised that education would have to wait a little bit longer for there was a set of keys to be freed from their prison and a door that had to be opened.

It's a funny thing but we had all often talked about the different ways in which thieves break into cars and now I had the opportunity to try them out. One suggestion was cutting a hole in a tennis ball and squeezing it against the keyhole, in the hope that the out rushing air would spring the lock and thus the door would open. The lack of a tennis ball in my pocket on the way to lectures sort of made me count that one out immediately. However I did manage to acquire a wire coat hanger from a fellow student in the neighbourhood and decided to set about the task of pushing it into the space between the driver window and its rubber surround, eventually looping it around the little rimmed lock button and springing it upwards. But you don't look entirely inconspicuous nor convincing when you are standing outside a car in a car park and holding a coat hanger near the window. I wanted to hold up a big poster that said, 'it's my car actually,' in response to all the looks of suspicion glanced in my direction by the cavalcade of motorists hurrying to work. Still, the whole thing was over in about a minute, hardly a record for breaking and entering an Allegro but I felt pretty pleased with myself in a strangely inverse kind of way. It was almost part of growing up, like part of my initiation into adulthood, my passing from a naive teenager into a man of the world. Yes I had broken into a car and nobody could lay a finger on me for doing it. Anyway, twice more I had to perform the same task, once on another car of my own, though I discovered that German cars take a little bit more effort than British ones and then one day I was able to use my well honed skills to rescue a damsel in distress, though I was slightly distressed about the danger of damaging her metallic paint during the process.

Since those days, with the advent of central locking using the key, such dangers are unlikely. But I now find that when I am locking the doors of my car by pressing the button on the key, I probably do it on average, about three times just to see the indicator lights flash and put my mind at rest that the doors are definitely not open. And today my lingering could have saved someone's life. We had just parked in another car park with the intention of getting some groceries in the late afternoon and wife had walked on slightly ahead while I checked just a couple more times that the indicators were giving me the go ahead to leave the car. But just as I made my way across the park towards the shops what should be rolling down the incline towards me only a shopping trolley, without any brakes or flashing lights but with one very concerned looking toddler sitting on board and an even more stressed looking female chasing some yards behind. A quick calculation in my head assured me that the speed of the trolley was greater than that of the lady in pursuit and that it would reach the part where cars pass long before the mother could reach it. Brushing past a shiny BMW and redirected by its wing mirror, the trolley and helpless passenger headed straight in my direction and into my arms. Thankfully no car was passing but had I not been there, it would certainly have careered across the park and come to rest rather suddenly against a parked vehicle. At the end, there was a short nervous laugh from the female and a thank you and we all went on our way, but I'm glad I had stopped to check if the car doors were open or shut.

Sometimes I wonder why we are just in the right place at the right time, whether it be stopping a runaway shopping trolley or helping a damsel to open her car and then I remember that even in the simple things in life, God is still in control. I think of how he sent Philip to speak to the Ethiopian and the Gospel goes to Africa, how a shepherd boy just happened to be coming to see his brothers and Goliath is defeated. I think of Joseph who ended up as a slave in Egypt but saved the country from starvation and Ananias who live in Straight Street, Damascus just when Saul needed to get his sight back. And God continues to send those to us, sometimes with just a chance remark, or a text message, a phone call or a word of encouragement and often we find ourselves in the same position where our past experiences or our faith help us to help somebody else in their time of need. And doesn't Jesus say of His followers, 'For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.' That's what it is to be open for God, to meet someone else's needs, not out of any duty but because we are filled with the same love and compassion that Jesus shows us, walking in His likeness. The question is, when God opens those doors, are we ready to walk through?

O is for OCTOBER

I know a man who can't pronounce October properly. I know he went to school, around the same time as I did and even then he couldn't say it properly, though I didn't have the heart to tell him and haven't got round to rectifying the situation forty years later. So when I hear him talk refer to the tenth month of the year as Obtober, I just have a little smile inside, though he never knows. Funny but the same guy can't pronounce puncture either and in the relatively few instances when he and I have discussed flat tyres he tends to talk about having a pumpture, and I can see where he's coming from, for there is a definite relationship between a pump and a flat wheel. Anyway the guy's nearly fifty now and as he has made it this far without total command of the English language, I reckon he'll get by without my intervention.

It reminds me of another man, much closer to my dad's age,who often came to visit us on Sunday evenings and would regularly utter a myriad of mispronunciations that would send dad into raptures of laughter, though our guest always thought he was just enjoying the story he was telling. He would often talk about linoleum on the floor as melodion and when a special speaker called Richard Wurmbrand came to preach at our church shortly after his release form a Russian prison, our good friend referred to him as Mr Woodworm!
But, no matter how you pronounce it, October is still a bit special in our house. Our first son came into this world in October, somewhere around about six thirty on the morning of the fourteenth when most people were either still in bed or just preparing for the birth of a new day. We hadn't planned it for the tenth month and at the time it seemed just a little inconvenient, having moved into our new house only a few weeks previously. But all that seemed unimportant when the young sprog appeared to brighten up a nice autumn morning and also the following few months of sleepless nights during which I was able to watch 'The Guns of Navarone' all the way through for the first time, though normally I wouldn't have chosen to view it at three o'clock in the morning. As some sort of remembrance ritual, I recently sat down and watched it all again, for only the second time, some twenty years later and it was just as good, probably because I had forgotten the whole story in the intervening period! October is also the month dad died, just nearly four years ago now. I always remember it because we 'celebrated' youngest son's eighteenth birthday the day after the funeral. It didn't seem much like a celebration at the time but I guess dad was the sort of character who would have told us to 'stop the crying' and get with it. Still it wasn't easy to do and the thing is, even though he had almost reached ninety and was in clearly failing health, I never really expected him to leave so quickly. But at least he got to make his last journey along the lane where he had lived all his life, in beautiful sunshine. A year later in the same month we still wouldn't be celebrating as mum was diagnosed with terminal illness that would claim her life long before the following October, by which time my father in law would be reaching the latter stages of his losing battle with Alzheimer's. Yes, October has lots of memories, but even amidst the occasional clouds, God provides the sunshine, sometimes in the simple things, like a colourful autumn leaf fall or the last remnants of an apple harvest, or the breeze of a strong wind. I'm often reminded that as the dark evenings begin to envelop us with ever increasing speed and house lights appear glowing from late afternoon, that somewhere in the not too distant future, we will no longer be prisoners of the autumn and winter darkness as the light invades our lives and stays just that little bit longer each day.

And so it is with Jesus, who banishes the darkness that surrounds us, who comforts us when the clouds arrive and who promises us a bright future in His holy presence, regardless of the travails that we must endure on earth. Like the Psalmist, I can say 'You, O LORD, keep my lamp burning; my God turns my darkness into light.'


We have five deciduous trees on our lawn. When October took away their leaves last year, they looked dead to the uninitiated. As I gaze on them today, they sway in all their glory, a delightful collection of colours. When Jesus raised Lazarus, he said he was only sleeping, though everyone knew he had died. But through the resurrection power of God, he was raised to life and so we shall be at the last day if our faith had been in the Son of the Most High and we have asked Him to be our Saviour. And it really doesn't matter if I'm not eloquent with words for my heavenly Father knows what I mean.

P is for PEACE

And so at last the war has ended in our province. At least that's what we're being told. The only problem is that some people won't admit to saying that it's over because they don't think it was a war in the first place, while other groups want to keep it going, but not those who used to be involved but are now in government with all the financial and material benefits that such a position might accrue. So when is a war not a war, if people are being killed. Some say it was never a war because many who died were murdered and not killed in the sense in which soldiers lose their lives in battle during combat. And I can see their reasoning for hundreds of innocent civilians died sometimes because of no other reason than they had contact with army or police during their work while many others had their lives cut short when out of uniform. And in this so called war there weren't just two sides, for there were three distinct groups and often even within those groups they fell out and murdered each other. So we didn't refer to some groups as armies but instead called them terrorists. But anyway it's all over now, at least the fighting bit, or so they say anyhow. It's just that I can't quite reconcile the attitudes and intransigent positions of many of the players with the words of peace that they utter. Am I alone?

So I ask myself , what is peace? Is it a time when there are no wars? Well that depends where you live for in 2006, there were at least sixteen disturbances in the world that could have been classified as war. Maybe it's a state of mutual harmony between people though I guess we can live alongside many people whose ideas and ours would hardly be harmonised but we manage to get by. I suppose it could be classified as a freedom from civil commotion and violence of a community, but I know that hardly exists in many of our towns and cities even though we are meant to be living in peace time. My dictionary suggests that peace is the 'normal, non warring condition of a nation, group of nations, or the world,' but I hardly think it has been normal for a long time. Maybe peace is a more personal thing altogether. I often heard my dad say, 'would you give my head peace' and I reckon whatever we were doing was causing some sort of annoyance inside his head and disturbing the tranquility and serenity of his mind.

I once wrote a poem about peace. It made me really think how fragile it can be, when we can forgive but not forget, when we can look at others but never speak, when we can walk our streets but not without worry, when we can live only because of the rules we have made to keep peace. Agreeing to disagree is hardly the formula for everlasting peace. But it also made me realise that peace starts with the individual for when our hearts are not at peace and full of peace, we will always find a way to shatter it. Indeed the peace that Jesus give is listed among the fruits of the Spirit that also include love, joy, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness and isn't it true that for real peace in our hearts we need to possess all the others too. Jesus said 'Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you.' And He brings that peace to every person when we believe in Him as our Saviour. Paul also tells us that 'the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.'

So everlasting peace doesn't begin with a set of rules but a changing of the heart and then we will know the truth of Isaiah's words about His Creator, when he says 'You will keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast, because he trusts in you.'

P is for POSSESSIONS

A very close friend of my sister took ill recently while on a short break in France. Although she showed considerable signs of improvement in the days following, eventually an infection took her life. Since they had been good friends for many years and shared a house when they worked in the same area of England, my sister took on part of the responsibility of sorting out her friend's possessions in readiness for the family to dispose of the house. What she didn't expect to find was that things in the home which had been of great personal significance were largely worthless in anybody else's eyes and it seemed like a lifetime spent gathering bits and pieces had only brought value to the one who owned them. And then only fleetingly. Such was the apathy of others towards second hand items that an almost new cooker couldn't even be offloaded for more than thirty pounds and as for clothes, well they were really only of interest to charity shops and the like.

It may seem slightly morbid and I may have commented on this before, but staring into a coffin makes you realise that no matter what possessions we have on earth, everything is left behind. So why do we do it? I know that I'm a great hoarder, probably like most people and I do have a bit of a reluctance about throwing junk out, even down to the spare screws that might come with a piece of self build furniture. The other day, an engineer fitted some new computer equipment in school and when I was clearing out the boxes he had left behind, I found this shiny, new metal bracket complete with fittings, that would be absolutely of no use, unless you were the owner of the kind of equipment he had installed. Still, it looked interesting enough for me to set it on a shelf in my room, a place form where I will probably have to move it again in a few year from now. I also have two obsolete computers in the attic along with a chest of drawers that I had to partially dismantle to get it up there. Also a couple of old bookcases sit alongside it and several suitcases that will never get another holiday. And there are ornaments, pictures and toys that the boys had many years ago plus a multitude of old VHS video tapes going back before the original Live Aid concert in 1985. I have half threatened to put the best ones on to DVD but what about when that format becomes obsolete. Anyway, the only person who is really interested in them is yours truly and when I'm gone, somebody will come along and light a big fire with the things that I thought were worth keeping.


And don't tell me that you don't have certain possessions on which you place great importance, for I think we all have such items, either relics from our past or present days things, expensive or very cheap, big or small, old or new, but they're still important to us. I suppose my computer, ipod and mobile would be near the top of my list, though I wonder how I survived for forty years without any of them, for my quality of life wasn't any less rich. And I do like to have a guitar around, while a pair of glasses are a possession that has become more of a necessity than desirable. But I have seen the time when a football or a rugby ball, a record player, a cassette tape or a poster of Liverpool FC would have been essential possessions. How times change, but maybe it at least makes you reminisce?


Of course there is nothing wrong with having nice things. Indeed, the writer of Ecclesiastes writes, ' when God gives any man wealth and possessions, and enables him to enjoy them, to accept his lot and be happy in his work—this is a gift of God', but Jesus crystallised it for me when He said 'a man's life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions.' The apostles of the early church, set us a good example to follow, for 'no one claimed that any of his possessions was his own, but they shared everything they had.' And isn't that important as believers to realise that it's not what possessions we have but what we actually do with them for the benefit of others. Yet for some, it's those very possessions that keep us away from God. The young man who had kept all the commandments found it hard to take when Jesus told him to sell what he had and give to those in need. Matthew records that 'he went away sorrowful: for he had great possessions.'

Like I say, looking at what remains of a loved one who has passed beyond this life, focuses the mind on what we leave behind, but it also reminds me that the greatest possession we can have, of eternal life with God, is ours to keep for ever.

P is for PRESBYTERIAN

I'm a Presbyterian living in a Methodist body - or is it the other way round? Wife's even worse off for she's a a reluctant Presbyterian, wearing Methodist clothes but living inside an Anglican skin. And sons aren't much better, with one bobbing between a couple of Presbyterian churches, when he's not at a Methodist building or one of several Baptist establishments he frequents while the other is best described as a Presbyterian, Methodist, Baptist, Pentecostal, Brethren worship leader with a touch of Vineyard. Confused? Actually, we're not at all, though you might think so. But of course the common denominator is not all about denominations at all, for the only word that really matters is Christian. And I don't mean that broad definition which defines an individual, group or country according to a main religious leaning. We can talk about people being Christian as opposed to Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist or Sikh but to be a Christian in the true sense of the word involves a much more personal faith and belief in Jesus as God's Son and Saviour of the world. In other words, we are 'Christ's ones' and that doesn't always apply to everyone who walks under the banner of Christianity.

The Presbyterian church building where I grew up was an ancient and traditional affair but two things I remember well was the old tree near the entrance where us boys always congregated between Sunday School and the church service to talk about the previous day's football results, though now I guess there wouldn't be much to say, since most of the games happen on the Sabbath itself. But I also recall the old stable whee the 'men' gathered for a smoke and a chat before filing in just when the minster was about to commence proceedings. The service itself was pretty standard, with a sung Psalm at the start, prayers, two Bible readings with a hymn sandwiched between, a children's address and hymn, the announcements and offering and another prayer, which was always the time to slip in a sweet before the sermon and then ending about forty five minutes after the sermon had begun with a closing hymn or Paraphrase. Throw in the odd choir anthem at the offering and you could probably be spot on every Sunday with the running order. I guess it's still much the same today and probably like most churches there is a certain amount of security in having a regular agenda. I always remember too the little piece of purple cloth that hung down in front of the pulpit showing an embroidered picture of the burning bush and those words that I viewed every Sunday from the choir, 'ardens sed virens.' that, I think, roughly translated meant, 'burning but flourishing,' a reference to the bush where Moses encountered God and discovered his mission to free the Israelites from captivity. I recently discovered that the bush in question should be a desert acacia with some tangled branches containing both green leaves and white flowers. I used to think it meant 'burned but not consumed' and even in my basic understanding of foreign languages, I couldn't find any word which would have represented 'not' in that phrase.

Anyway, like most churches, the Presbyterian family has its own internal structure and as I have talked to many other denominations about their own levels of responsibility and hierarchy, I have discovered that all the main churches have similarities in positions of leadership and all have many differences in doctrinal positions and interpretation of Scripture. Presbyterians have Presbyteries,elders and committees, Church of Ireland have Parishes, Select Vestry and Churchwardens, Methodists have Circuits, stewards, leader's committees and lay preachers while Baptists have Conferences, pastors, deacons and elders. Essentially, every church has a group of people who have overall responsibility for keeping everything running on a week to week basis and every time I'm talking to someone from another denomination, I almost invariably try to equate what they tell me with my own Presbyterian background. Suffice to say that, every 'Christian' church has its strong points and while I still feel a Presbyterian at heart, years of sharing worship with believers from many denominations that I haven't even mentioned, assure me that when Jesus said to His disciples ' Go into all the world and preach the good news to all creation,' He hadn't any particular denomination in mind. And that is why when one group of believers casts a critical eye on their neighbours, I think sometimes we need to remember the words of Peter when he said 'We believe it is through the grace of our Lord Jesus that we are saved.' Nothing added to that makes us Christians, for God doesn't accept us on the basis of our denomination but wholly on the sincerity of our faith in Him. And he won't be asking me if I'm a good Presbyterian.

P is for PERISHABLE

When cat was still a kitten, he used to disappear occasionally into the other rooms in the house, when we weren't watching. We should have known better for as yet he wasn't house trained. Then one day a strange aroma began to waft through the house and as the evening wore on and the next day arrived, we began to suspect that the smell, getting stronger by the hour, might have a sinister cause, somewhere in the spare room which now appeared to be the epicentre. After some initial investigations, that only took about two minutes, a wet patch was discovered on an old, disused sofa that seemed to be closely related to the offending stench. Kitten was evicted, after some stern words but it took much longer to evict the smell for as the sofa dried out the misdemeanours of the feline hung in the air for days as a reminder of our neglect and carelessness as much as the kitten's unknown mistake. Even the presence of a variety of air freshener sprays, pot pourri and flowers did little to redeem things and eventually the sofa found its way out of the house.

So this week when a strange aroma began to surface in my classroom, I immediately drew on all my experience of the past and came to some rapid if slightly unfounded conclusions. You see, I knew that our caretaker had lots of cats which moved easily in and out of his own house and, as far as I knew, were all house trained, but on many mornings as I arrived or late in the evening when I was packing up to leave, either a single white feline or a mottled brown kitten would be standing somewhere near the front door, waiting patiently for their master to emerge. I assumed that maybe they had gained entry through the front door and then into my room and somewhere in the mists of time had left a calling card near the back windows. All this I had based on the similarity of the aroma emanating from that area with the one that I remembered from our sofa. I suppose I should have been a little more thorough in my investigations, noting that the cats always ran away every time the door was open and also would have had to stand on their hind legs to turn the handle and gain entry to the classroom. And I guess I should also have noted that the pupils always left the milk cartons at the rear of the room every morning. So when the sun came out last week and the room got hotter until it was stifling, the aroma became unbearable, almost to the point where drivers on the main road were holding their noses on the way past. Well not exactly, but it was bad. I had intended to investigate it before but now there was no time to lose. And it only took ten seconds to discover the cause. For lying at the back of one of the plastic drawers, lodged behind a block or two of old file paper, was an almost full carton of milk, dated December 2007. Enough said!


Like all foods, milk perishes quickly and you don't have to leave it for six months to discover that. Wife is paranoid about sell-by dates on food and although I have tried to convince her that, in most cases, these are only guides, some cartons and packages end up in the bin anyway. But you can usually tell when food has perished beyond use by its colour and especially its smell though I suppose from the day it hits the shelves, deterioration has already set in. It just can't be reversed and almost all our preserving methods will eventually succumb to the dreaded microbes that make it unpalatable.


I was reading today from the New Living Translation, in Paul's letter to the Corinthian church and was reminded once again just how frail we are as humans. He writes 'But this precious treasure - the light and power that now shine within us - is held in perishable containers, that is, in our weak bodies.' But he also gives us great confidence when he writes, 'For we know that when this earthly tent we live in is taken down (that is, when we die and leave this earthly body), we will have a house in heaven, an eternal body made for us by God himself and not by human hands.' I suppose, like most people, as I get older, I know I'm not able to have the same stamina, can't run as fast and the bones and muscles ache just a little more after a hard day than they did even ten years ago. And I've watched as the senior members of my family circle have become old and have seen their bodies head towards the inevitable perishable stage. We can't put off the passage of time and despite the creams and remedies and surgery that many try, life is shorter at the end of each day. But here's a thought that keeps me going. Not only is God going to give me a new body that will not perish with time but while I'm here on earth I intend to live the rest of my years for His glory and not mine and then look forward to everlasting happiness in His presence. Jesus says, 'Don’t be so concerned about perishable things like food. Spend your energy seeking the eternal life that the Son of Man can give you. For God the Father has given me the seal of his approval.' With God you're never past your sell-by date.

P is for PRACTISE

It is another example of how easy it is to misunderstand the English language when I say I might go to a practice but that doesn't necessarily mean that I will practise. Or equally difficult to comprehend that a you might visit a doctor's practice and find that he or she is practising. I mean, why do they do all that study for years and then every day all they do is practise. It doesn't exactly fill you with confidence. I can just hear myself thinking as I enter the surgery, 'How often have you practised before I came in and do you intend to practise on me?' I mean, I remember well at rugby practice, if we dropped a ball or a move went wrong, I would think to myself, 'it's only a practice,' so I hope doctor's don't think the same way!

Of course the whole confusion over the two words is because the 'practise' is a verb and is all about what we actually do while 'practice' is a noun often used to indicate a sports practice or a music practice, but not restricted to just these. Unless of course you live in America where they just use the latter spelling for the verb and the noun. Anyway you'll have plenty of opportunities to practise that before I'm finished.

I have to admit I wasn't the most enthusiastic practiser in the sports world when it had to be done, though my interest was always higher when we practised with the ball than simply improving our fitness by running endlessly about the place like mad turkeys who have just heard Jingle Bells for the first time. But I do recall spending endless hours in the early seventies banging a football against the gable wall of home, often knocking off some of the pebble dash and not being the most popular in the household when if was noticed. And mostly I practised with my left foot, chipping, smashing, curling with inside, toe and outside until the ball did exactly what I wanted it to do. It was all because of a footballer called Alec Lindsay, who was left back for Liverpool at the time and who had the most perfect left foot I had ever witnessed when it came to striking a ball. HE was just poetry in motion and seemed to have the ball on a piece of string, man and ball in perfect harmony. So I practised and practised until I had as much confidence hitting a football with my left as with my right. And of course though I never went on to play soccer, the time I had spent in the back yard with the round ball became easy to transfer to the oval ball on the rugby field. On one occasion, our coach even remarked to me that he thought I was left footed because I often used it more than my right during a game.

My uncle, who loved music, once told me, when I was leaning the piano, to keep practising, because he had regretted, later in his life, giving up the instrument. Needles to say, I didn't heed his advice and now, I wish I could play the instrument with more confidence than I do. And I look at youngest son who practised long and hard and is now a joy to listen to when he sits down in front of the ivories. But I think the secret to practising is in actually wanting to achieve something, to having that drive to master an ability you already possess or a task that you have been set. I know I persevered with the guitar through hours of painful fingertips and learning new chords and playing techniques but I also know that there is still so much to learn and I don't know whether I really have the drive to practise the way used to in my teens. I watched a pupil last week in school, who clearly will not be the world's greatest recorder player as he played a whole verse of a song with the recorder upside down and the holes on the bottom instead of the top. It took him that whole verse to realise his mistake but I guess his lack of interest is a reasonable guide to how much time he intends to devote to the instrument in the future.

Wife does a blog too. You can catch it at 365blessings.com. Yesterday she was so enthused in school because she had found some wonderful educational websites that would be ideal to use withe her class. I hadn't the heart to tell her that they had been there all the time but the encouraging thing is that every day she is now using the computer, for her blog, emails, exams, plans and websites and probably is only starting to realise that all this time she has devoted to it, is in fact practising. And it's beginning to show results. No longer is there that great dread when she reaches for the start up button and now she is actually keen to learn how to do new things. I guess while the old proverb, 'practise makes perfect' is not completely accurate there is a strong grain of truth that it points us in the right direction.

In Matthew's gospel, Jesus refers to the Pharisees by saying 'they do not practise what they preach.' The thing is if we say we belong to Him and we do not practise following His examples of purity, righteousness, love, humility and forgiveness, that lack of practise shows in our lives, especially in our attitude and relation to others and then I wonder if we really mean what we say. Jesus puts it much better when he says, 'But the one who hears my words and does not put them into practice is like a man who built a house on the ground without a foundation. The moment the torrent struck that house, it collapsed and its destruction was complete.' I guess too that if we practise those things that are alien to His example, we end up becoming experts at those instead and then it's more difficult to break the bad habits. But Paul gives us sound advice in his letter to the Philippians when he writes, 'Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things. Whatever you have learned or received or heard from me, or seen in me—put it into practice. And the God of peace will be with you. Like I say, practice doesn't make perfect, but it gets you closer to perfection.

P is for PARABLE

A parable is an earthly story with a heavenly meaning. Here is a very earthly story that you won't find in the Bible.

There was once a farmer who owned many oxen that grazed and lay down in green pastures. On day he called his son to him and together they went out into the field to look over and count their oxen. But behold, when they did count the animals the father was filled with despair for a single ox had gathered up all his belongings and gone to a far country, through a large hole in the hedge. 'We must go and find that which is lost?' said the farmer to his son, who with a rather puzzled look on his face, replied, 'What do you mean "We must go"? For surely when the ox that has gone to the far country, sees the error of his ways and looks over the hedge at his friends back at home, enjoying the green pastures, he will return from whence he came.' When he had come to his senses, the son discovered that the father was already half way towards the hole in the hedge and beckoning him to follow. 'Anyway,' continued the son, 'we already have twenty six oxen in this field. Why would any farmer leave them all alone and go and look for just one ox, when all the other oxen might be attacked by some wild domestic dog or be rustled by another local farmer. Indeed they might even discover the hole in the thicket themselves and all leave for the far country. At this, the father stopped in his tracks and one good clip around the ear later, having explained that if the remaining oxen had wanted to leave they would have done so already and the hole in the thicket would be the narrow door through which the prodigal ox would return to grazing heaven and green pastures, he continued on towards the far country. Some time later, he beheld a wonderful sight. For in the distance he could see his beloved ox running. Unfortunately it was running in the opposite direction, having spotted his master some seconds earlier and decided to go deeper into the far country, or at least behind a tree where nobody could see him. This action filled the father with anger and, shouting instructions to his beloved son, sometimes in words he did not quite understand, eventually both encircled the ox. Now tired from extensive partying with the locals and trying to run away, he realised it was hopeless and began to remember the green pastures of home. So it came to pass that together the father and his son led the ox back through the hole, though not carried on the father's shoulders like the lost sheep and home to his family, where he gave the ox a fresh bucket of meal.

And lo the father saw a blackthorn bush and with a mighty blow from his axe, he cut down two large branches which he planted in the thicket, henceforth closing the way to the far country.

Some time later the father and his son went home rejoicing and called all his family together and said to them, 'Rejoice with me for I have found the ox which was lost.' 'Great,' said his wife, 'but if you'd fenced in the first place it would never have happened. Now eat your dinner.'

But behold, the oxen out in the green pastures, heard the singing and dancing of the farmer as he rejoiced and the wife got on with the ironing. And they murmured ( or was that moo mooed) amongst themselves and said, 'Lo these many months we have never transgressed or gone to the far country, even though we have looked over the thicket a few times, but we were never given a fresh bucket of meal to ourselves.'

The next Friday, the father and son came to the field again, took out the ox that had gone astray and sent it to the abattoir to be killed because its time had come. But there were no murmurings that day.

Well that's what happened, at least as far as I can remember, for dad never let any of his animals that broke out of the field, remain on someone else's land for long. And of course the reason he wanted this particular animal back was because he knew it was ready to be sent to the meat plant. He was always a good judge of that.

And there is a heavenly meaning in all of this. For we're all tempted by the far country and many of us have 'looked over the hedge'. Maybe you have said, 'there but for the grace of God go I.' when you have seen the effect the far country has had on somebody you know. But how wonderful that we have a Saviour who cares about us enough when we stray, to not let go of us and to seek to bring us back to His green pastures. And there is no doubt, just like the parables of the lost coin, son and sheep that there is great rejoicing in heaven when any of us puts our faith in Jesus. And even when we fail in our walk and maybe go back to the far country more than once, He still doesn't forget about us and always leaves the narrow hole open for our return.

Dad never lost an animal in this way for he knew all that were his. That's dedication but how much greater is the Son's knowledge of each of us and as He says, 'My Father, which gave them me, is greater than all; and no man is able to pluck them out of my Father's hand.'

P is for PORTADOWN

Last year, I think it was, in a nationwide survey, that the town acquired the unenviable distinction of being listed in the top fifty worst towns to live in and was the only town in the province to feature in the list, though 'feature' is probably an inappropriate word. I have to say I wasn't particularly bothered by its newly gained fame, having spent my school life in the neighbouring city of Armagh which was marginally closer to home. And of course it is a city with history, ancient buildings, a Royal school dating back four hundred years, the two major cathedrals of the Roman Catholic and Church of Ireland churches and a spectacular Mall joined by Georgian houses. And of course our greatest enemies on the rugby field both at school and club level lived just ten miles down the road in Portadown. For some reason, we rarely beat them and in close matches they always just scraped home. So in terms of sport, particularly rugby, no love was ever lost and each town club was unimpressed by the other's success but jubilant at their failures. Yet for some reason, I almost always gravitated towards Portadown, partly because it had always a greater range of shops and at one stage had at least three good record stores where there always was a chance to find something worth buying. Also I chose the town for my banking and often we would sidle into one of its cafes on an afternoon or Saturday morning for a coffee and scone. It was always the more progressive town in erecting new business and shopping areas and seemed to attract outlets that its more parochial neighbour could only dream about. With a population of about thirty thousand and nestled on both sides of the Bann river traversing its width at two points, an ornate train station, Irish League football club, nearby hospital and five minutes from the motorway, it seemed an ideal place to reside. But years often take their toll on any town. As I drive along the long side street that once led to the station where I often boarded the train as a child, there only stands an image in my head of what once was a beautiful building. I was too young to understand why they pulled it down and relocated to an eyesore near the centre of towns. Maybe the powers that be were anticipating the death of the railway, or maybe the building was in a bad state of repair, but it was part of old Portadown, just like many of the streets that have given way to new developments and an extensive road system that allows most commuters to bypass the town centre. Progress, no doubt! Along with the troubles which blighted the town since the early seventies, the overall effect was to see the demise of many locally owned shops and the short term stay for more national chains, though a walk or a drive along its long High Street leading towards the church on an evening was only spectacular if you enjoyed seeing the metal shutters that hid the heart of the town from view. And at one stage, there seemed to be more financial institutions, insurance and estate agents than shops along that main street, but slowly the town whose heart was broken has been receiving major surgery and that 'worst town' tag is not an accurate reflection of its present state at all. Still, that doesn't make me want to support their rugby team!

So it was interesting that the town made the news during the last few weeks again, this time not due to any 'troubles' but really because of the fact that their long standing as a senior club in the Irish League since 1924 was about to be suddenly curtailed and all due to a period of fifteen minutes. Imagine that. You spend over eighty years building up the club to be one of the most successful in the province and your future is over in a quarter of an hour. Suffice to say that despite their appeals and excuses, it looks like Portadown town will not have a senior football club next year because they were late with their papers for the new league by fifteen minutes, even though they probably had two years to prepare their application. But that's life, isn't it? If my application for a job is late, I'm not eligible and if I don't pay my credit card bill in time I'm penalised. I have no complaint if I fail to meet a deadline for almost always the cut off date and time are clearly displayed and worse still, I know about them.





Maybe that's why some people are so laid back about their souls. For while we all know that Jesus had promised to come back and take all those who believe in Him back to heaven, He hasn't exactly given us an exact time or date and so a certain lack of urgency has maneged to creep into too many lives. But look at this way. If I was applying for a job and only the person advertising the post knew the closing date, I think I would be pretty keen to get my application in as early as possible. Of course God never told us the exact date when His Son would return, because too many would live their lives as they pleased until the day or hour before and that is hardly what He had in mind when He sent Him the first time to die for your sins. Many would say that signs indicated in the Bible suggest that His return is near and it certainly is closer than it was last week but for me the important thing is not only to be ready in time but to experience the peace and joy that He brings to my life here on earth, while I try to walk in his way.


Jesus says 'So you also must be ready, because the Son of Man will come at an hour when you do not expect him.' And Paul writes in his letter to the Corinthians, 'I tell you, now is the time of God's favour, now is the day of salvation.' Fifteen minutes isn't a long time to be late, but it could be for ever.

P is for PREPARATION

The view from the front steps of my grandparent's house was amazing. Living in the east of the city of Belfast their home faced down over Victoria Park, a place that had its own outdoor swimming pool, which I remember freezing in at least once and the emerging and overpowering presence of the two yellow cranes that towered over that part of town. But at the time I recall, the first one was still only under construction and the other not due to appear for several years. And though you could see all the way to the mountains in the west of the city, one structure took pride of place in the foreground causing everything else to fade into oblivion. That 'structure' was the Oval, home of Glentoran Football Club and the supported team of the whole community around those parts. I wasn't a particularly avid Glens fan, having aligned myself with the blue and white stripes of Coleraine, for no other sensible reason than the fact that I had picked them to win the Irish Cup in the mid sixties and they duly obliged. However, during the late summer, when I would spend some of my holidays at his Park Avenue home, Bob, my grandfather would often walk with me down to the Oval, about half a mile away from the front door and we would watch the pre season friendlies against some of the 'big' teams from across the water as part of Glentoran's preparation for the new season. So I managed to see such clubs as Stoke City and Huddersfield who then were both operating in the old First Division, yesterday's equivalent of the Premiership and also never forgot such Oval heroes as Trevor Thompson, Billy McCullough, Bimbo Weatherup and Arthur Stewart. And I always remember the big keeper, Albert Finlay, who wore a bright yellow jersey. Anyway, those games were so important and though they were billed as friendlies, they were vital to both sides in preparing for the season ahead by improving match fitness, sharpness, speed and stamina.

I began to realise the importance of such preparation when I started to play rugby for apart from the nights spent slogging around the perimeter of a pitch or sprinting backwards and forwards along its length, of equal importance was the time we spent practising different moves, talking about the opposition strengths and weaknesses and thinking about the game ahead. And of course we always had to finish with a session of unopposed rugby. For the uninitiated, this involves playing as if the opposition were there, when really they're not at all and going through all the phases of play until a try was scored. Sometimes, though we dropped the ball so often or failed to complete moves that I think we probably lost some unopposed games! Not exactly the greatest preparation in the world. After training and a shower, our coach would get us seated all around the perimeter of a room and ask each of us what we intended to do in the game on Saturday or else what each individual thought about the game ahead. It was always fascinating to see how different team mates viewed the match and the opposition but it did help develop wonderful team spirit.

But years later, sports preparation by athletes for big events is so much more professional than it used to be, even at school level. Diet, weights, psychology, conditioning and a superior knowledge of fitness have all led to games being faster and often more skilful than before. Computer testing, video analysis and player stats for a game all provide an increased level of preparation and a friend who is a hockey coach tells me about how much thought he has to put into his team talks to have the right balance of passion, psychology and tactics. But I suppose that sport is only one facet of our lives where preparation is vital. Most kids are in the throws of exams at present and burning the midnight oil as they complete their studying. All of us who drive would not think of taking the test without some knowledge of what to do when we get behind the wheel, nor would we expect our old banger to get through an MOT test without a little bit of tidying up. And I don't think too many wives would invite the outlaws to dinner or the minister and his wife for afternoon tea unless the hoover had been out and the duster and polish had been given a rattle.

So when Jesus tells me that ' In My Father’s house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you,' I reckon that's about as personal as you can get. But the promise is much greater because He follows it up with this statement, 'And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to Myself; that where I am, there you may be also.' But the question is, how prepared am I for His coming? Have I got the Shield of Faith, The Helmet of Salvation, the Breastplate of Righteousness , the Belt of Truth and the Sword of the Spirit? Is my preparation for tomorrow or eternity? Isn't the motto of the Scouts, 'be prepared?' Ready for anything? Ready for His coming? If not, prepare yourself for the the consequences.