J is for JELLY

I used to love jelly though to speak of it in the past tense is to in some way lament the passing of a great friend with whom I no longer have any association, when nothing could be further from the truth, though one has to say that it is a dessert probably more favoured by children and more likely to be offered to such an age group. Still, when I see the pupils in school queuing up for little plastic containers of the stuff, I know its popularity is certainly not on the wane and as such on such an occasion, I do manage to sneak the odd tub, with the cook's permission of course, to relive past memories.

And the memories centre around the sideboard of the scullery in my childhood home, when jelly making was the day's big event. Essentially it was red jelly of the strawberry or raspberry variety that arrived in little cardboard boxes which when opened, revealed inside a clear cellophane packaging, two blocks subdivided into sixteen squares of the raw material, ready for use. All mum had to do was pour boiling water into her glass bowl, add the jelly now broken into individual cubes, to quicken the melting process, give the whole thing a good stir until there was only re liquid with no lumps and then leave it to set, usually in the fridge. I f I was fortunate and if she remembered, a couple of cubes never made it to the mixture, their final resting place being between my molars. I'm sure I'm not the first person to partake of such goodness-sometimes mum would but the powdered jelly which did the same thing in the end but the level of anticipation never even got off the ground during the preparation process.

When I went to secondary school I again came face to face with jelly but of a less appetizing sort, for this was agar jelly, derived from seaweed, colourless and used in our study of bacteria in the lab. We soon learned how to make this jelly from powder and hot water, in sterile conditions, how to sterilise the little Petri dishes in an autoclave before pouring the liquid jelly into the base and leaving aside to harden. Even this process was done too close to aflame for comfort, just to ensure that no foreign bodies floating about the room got into the dish and contaminated the experiment.
Some days later, we grew our own cultures on the jelly, often using coloured stains to identify their growth and as I moved on through university doing such processes became second nature as we studied germs that caused a whole variety of common ailments and also saw at first hand, how different antibiotics, disinfectants and the like checked or stopped the growth of such tiny organisms that could do so much harm and, left on their own, grow so quickly.
But no matter how much care we took, it was always possible for an unwanted organism to get through the barriers that should have stopped it, though when it grew it was always easy to recognise.

When sin is allowed to flourish in my life, it is easy to spot, especially to an outsider and because Satan looks for every opportunity to get a foothold, I have to be constantly on guard. That's why Peter write 'Be careful! Watch out for the attacks from the devil, your great enemy. He prowls around like a roaring lion, looking for some victim to devour.' And that's why the words of Psalm 18v30 always ring in my ears. 'The Lord is a shield for all who take refuge in Him.' That way Satan gets his just desserts.

J is for JOSEPH

I have to say I don't always have a great deal of sympathy for Joseph when I read his story, for there is no doubt that in his teenage years, he comes across as an arrogant, pompous, spoilt brat who liked nothing better than telling tales on hos half brothers to get them into trouble and then coming out with all sorts of stories which basically said how much better he was than any of them. But I guess there were a few extenuating circumstances that maybe excuse some of his behaviour. For a start his mum Rachel died when he was quite young so I guess he didn't have that motherly touch and love for long enough. Also his dad had children to four different women so, apart from Benjamin, everyone else was really just a step brother or sister. thirdly, and probably because he was born to the one woman his dad really loved, so late in life, he was the firm favourite with Jacob as the notorious coloured coat suggested. And fourthly, while the rest of the boys were out working, he seemed to be often excused such hard labour in favour of a more dreamy lifestyle.

I reckon if any arrogant, spoilt half brother had constantly carried stories about me to my parents and consistently reminded me that he would end up so much greater than I, ill thoughts of him would certainly have crossed my mind. So I can understand the rest of the gang's thoughts when they saw the opportunity arise of putting him firmly in his place, in this case a dry well. But you've got to hand it to Reuben, as oldest son, for bringing some reality to the situation, for without his intervention, Joseph wouldn't even have seen the well alive, though I imagine Reuben's consternation when he came back to help Joseph escape, only to discover the other brothers had sold him off to some passing merchants for the salve trade.
Form then on Joseph's life is a series of lows and highs, of personal struggles and triumphs as he moves from pit to Potiphar, to prison to Pharaoh to prime minister to paternity to peace wit his brothers, all part of the greater P that was God's plan for his life.

For Joseph, some things never change. He always spoke what he considered to be correct, regardless of how others might have perceived it. Sometimes it landed him with enemies, at other times made him a hero but always God used his words to great effect and blessed others through the gifts He had given to Joesph. But I often wonder how that pit experience at the tender age of seventeen changed him for the future. For there is no evidence of the arrogant, boastful, proud nature in his dealings with Potiphar's wife, the prison guard, Pharaoh, even his brothers when they came to Egypt and there is clear evidence that everyone who met him was attracted by his magnetic personality and his honesty. Maybe after all, his brothers did him a favour that day and gave him the time he needed to think and to grow up.

But one thing that Joseph said, right at the start of this lifelong adventure was in reply to his father's statement that he was sending him to his brothers. Joseph answered "I'm ready to go."
God may be ready to use us or to send us to do a job for Him even when He knows that we have still much to learn, but isn't it our reply to His order that matters, not our perceived readiness. If God calls you today, are you prepared to say "I'm ready to go" and, like Joseph, discover the adventure that will change you for ever.

J is for JUNE

June is one of those strangest of months in school, sandwiched between May when most of the exams take place and July when the shutters go up and the teachers wind down. When I was a pupil at primary school, early June was a time for our summer tests and then it was on with the more important business of sports day on the local football field, the odd nature study walk in the nearby domain, collecting flowers for pressing between leaves of our textbooks and a few extra afternoons of PE and Rounders. The sports day was undoubtedly the highlight as the whole school tramped up through the village, the half mile or so to the football club pitch with senior pupils having the added burden of hoops, ropes, skittles, spoons and potatoes to carry. Once there, it was a matter of carefully making our way through the half broken gate that marked the official entry near the half way line, though there were any number of unofficial entrance points along the lengths of barbed wire fencing that ran the length of the roadside boundary. Strangely, unlike today, sports day was generally a low key affair, with no medals given out and with only an audience of a couple of gatecrashing pensioners from the cottages across the road or an inquisitive passer-by who would pause briefly by the footpath to view a race before moving on. Nowadays, parents take off work, reorganise their schedules and come armed with advice and video cameras, hoping to catch history in the making or else rerun a race they never won themselves.

As a student, June usually meant freedom, with attendance at school only necessary on those days where exams took place and often meant hours of study at home, in the sunshine with too many revision notes and books and not enough coffee or chocolate biscuits for comfort. It was also the time when we never got to say goodbye properly to all of our classmates who had been our friends for the previous seven years, as different exam timetables left the end of term more than a little fragmented.
By the time I had moved to university, exams had already been safely negotiated and a summer job already filled the waking hours on a friend's farm, with the first rays of daylight often heralding the start of work in the silage field and the day's activities ending long after the sun had gone to bed.Yes June was a time that signalled endings and new beginnings, goodbyes and hellos, routines and relaxation, revision and revelling, showers and sunshine but, for some reason, it was all over before you knew it.

Today it hasn't changed as I view it from the other side of the classroom, for even though it's one of the busiest months of the year with loads of things happening and has mas many days in school as the other months, in an instant we will be giving out the trophies in our final assembly on the last day of term, saying a tearful goodbye to those who were in our care for the past seven years and wondering where the last thirty days had gone.
The writer of Ecclesiastes sums it up perfectly when he writes, 'there is a time for everything, a season for every activity under heaven' As we reflect on our roles as teachers in the month when many leave our door for the last time, let us again be drawn to that same writer who says, almost at the end of his musings, 'a wise teacher's words spur students to action and emphasise important truths.' Of all the truths they leave with, may the truth of the gospel of our Lord be the seed that is sown in their hearts to flourish on another day.

J is for JASPER

I have often wondered whatever happened to Jasper. You see it has almost been forty years since I last saw him, though every time we sing that chorus that has the line "over the jasper sea2, I stop and give him a thought, if only briefly. He taught me Physics when I was a first former in short trousers but within a couple of years he was gone to another job and disappeared out of my life. By now he will have retired I guess, since I have never heard any reports of his untimely passing. You know I can still recall where I sat in his laboratory, right at the front bench under his nose, with my back to the chalkboard and even though he , like all the other teachers in the school, never addressed me by anything other than my surname, which was the custom, I never had any reason to think he disliked me and had no cause to feel any animosity towards him.The trouble was he was far too intelligent for us first years and probably for most other students seeking to get a grasp of his beloved subject. And while his love for Physics probably outshone his class management skills, when he did get angry and impatient with someone in the class, his bulging eyes and protruding voice box did not always help his cause.He was a tall man, over six feet and one thing I oddly remember was that he always wore soft shoes, possibly an outward sign of an inner character!

I have no reason either to say that Jasper was a Christian for, as an eleven year old, I did not carry on such deep and meaningful conversations with my teacher nor probably even thought about him in that light, being more concerned with such pressing matters of the time of my lab book tidiness, homework and exam result. But I guess it is fair to say my Physics went downhill after he left!Retrospectively though, he had many of the qualities one should associate with a believer. He was gracious, helpful, very longsuffering, kind, slow to anger, fair, quietly spoken, except when we pushed him beyond the limits of his tolerance level. Nor was there ever any scandal or rumours floating in the corridors of school for he just got on with his job and his enjoyment was found in helping others to learn. Like I say, for all I know, he could have been a Christian for his life showed all the right credentials. But he may not have been!

It reminded me of a story I read yesterday about the rich young man who asked Jesus "what good things must I do to have eternal life?" When Jesus suggested initially that he keep the commandments, the young man fitted the bill perfectly for he had no difficulty in honouring the law. Yet it was Jesus' command to sell all and give the money to the poor that eventually floored him and left him short of the kingdom. And while this is a story of how money can come between us and God, what struck me was that essentially this young man had all the right credentials outwardly but inside he was far from the kingdom. Doesn't that worry you? Eternal life is not dependent on keeping laws, holding church office, singing ion the choir or being an upright person. It is only based on acceptance of Jesus as Saviour but also as Lord. Time to reflect on the words of the Psalmist in chapter 119. 'Open my eyes to see the wonderful truths in your law'.

J is for JOURNEY

It's funny when you're in a strange land, how difficult it can be to gauge exactly where you are on a journey, especially when the country happens to a lot larger than the one where you usually live. For example, if someone asked me how long it would take to get from my house to Dublin or from Belfast to Londonderry, I reckon, like most natives, I could estimate within fifteen minutes, the length of the journey. And even if out travelling on the road, you get to know the obvious landmarks that help you judge how near of far you are from your intended destination. But we were somewhere between the north part of South Africa and Swaziland and I don't think any of us knew how far we had come or how much further we needed to travel. It was all a bit disorientating and the rough roads, distinctly lacking in any tarmac or concrete, significantly slowed our journey so that it was impossible even to estimate in terms of time, how long we still had to go. So there we were, three men, in a four by four, somewhere up in the mountains, south of the Kruger National Park but not quite on the borders of Swaziland, sometimes slowed down lower than built up area driving speed limits, meeting the occasional pedestrian who seemed to almost appear from nowhere and stopping at the occasional little roadside stalls where young children offered us fruit for pittance but gave us their smiles for free. It was another world in every sense of the word and as we travelled onwards, there wasn't even the security of knowing that we were absolutely certain of going in the right direction, only the comfort of eventually meeting a signpost or, better still, a small village or town that might have appeared on our sparse map. That comfort became slightly less so, once when stopping at a gas station in a village where all of the male population seemed to be out of work, a different colour to us and standing or sitting only yards across the road, staring at some strange, white individuals in summer clothes.A second time in a much larger town when the whole population were going on with their normal lives but we could only see our three white skins as being abnormal. In truth, neither situation was threatening, but it taught me a lot about how we view strangers who come into our worlds and how at times our attitudes must make them feel or at least how they perceive to be seen.

And so it was, in the middle of the mountains, on dirt track roads, travelling at no more than twenty miles per hour, with every turn of the wheels sending judders through the chassis, miles from anywhere, and I can say that with some justification, our driver chose to phone his wife in Portstewart. Now you must understand travelling at such speeds meant that we could make almost instant emergency stops and negotiate even the most difficult bends on the journey, almost with our eyes closed. Also the odds of actually hitting another vehicle or a pedestrian were much less than winning the lottery since it had been some time since we had seen either, so my concern was probably not about the accident that might happen but more so about our driver. After all, as a policeman, he had spent most of his working life making sure others didn't break the rules and delivering punishment to those who did and now here he was, in a strange country, with others in his care, on a road with unknown hazards, doing the very thing that we are discouraged from doing. It wasn't even as if he was 'hands free', though I did detect, from my passenger seat, that at the precise moment he was punching in the number on his mobile, nobody was actually in charge of the vehicle at all. Still, she was happy to hear his voice and the smile on his face reciprocated her pleasure, so we all just had a good laugh about it, how you can change the rules to suit sometimes, though I reckoned the chance of being caught on a speed camera were as remote as our position at the time.

When I took my Australian friend on any journey, during his recent vacations back where he grew up, I discovered that every time we stopped at a junction in the car or even when on foot, stopped to cross a road, he would utter the word "waiting", usually just once. He explained that back home, every time he was out with his young family, he would do exactly the same thing just to ensure that everybody knew when to stop and so prevent any unfortunate accident. It became something of a joke after a while with us and it was almost a competition to see whether wife or I could get in with the word before he did, any time we stopped. I guess he saw the funny side too but there was definitely method in his madness.

I think I learned something about my own spiritual journey from both of those incidents. The latter clearly showed me that sometimes waiting is as important as moving. Being patient until God is ready is something that takes time to learn. The Psalmist says ' I waited patiently for the LORD; and he inclined unto me, and heard my cry.' But I also think I learned that it is quite possible to be on the wrong road completely even when you are sincerely sure you are right. You see not every map gives the same information and only the guidance that God gives can truly bring us to the destination that we seek, eternal happiness and joy with Him. That's why He says in Psalm 32 'I will instruct you and teach you in the way you should go;I will counsel you and watch over you.' There is no better guide for our spiritual journey than Jesus and no better way to remember the route than to write it down day by day. Wherever you are on your journey, isn't it time to check that you are on the right road?

J is for JIGSAW

Let me try and describe it to you. Two people are standing under an apple tree in an orchard. Both the ground below and the trees are laden with ripe apples and just to the rear of the two figures is a pile of fruit in which there are probably two hundred or more pieces waiting to be collected. There is no indication how they got there, whether the trees were shaken by hand, tossed by the wind or if workers had deposited their picked apples at that point. In the foreground is a wooden basket filled with fruit and in the distance another pile of apples lies patiently. But all this is secondary to the real story told in the picture. She has red hair, tied up in a 'bun' and as he talks to her she thinks long and hard, staring at the grass below and chewing on her index finger. There is no indication as to whether they work in the orchard or are just passing through , yet her blue apron suggest that maybe she is employed to pick apples. However they are standing too close to just be good friends and it is clear from the expressions that the conversation is serious in nature. Maybe it is the end of their love affair or just the beginning. Maybe they are planning to leave or he is comforting her in her sadness or pleading with her to change her mind but whatever the subject of discussion, they are caught, one moment in time, for ever to hang on our wall in suspended animation. I have looked at this picture many times without answers but the most striking thing about it is that when I built it many years ago from about a thousand separate pieces, I didn't even think about the what the picture was portraying, but only about the colours and shapes that fitted together correctly to make it.

It's not the first jigsaw I've completed and there are another four or five in the attic just waiting to happen, though the one with four thousand pieces may have to be very patient for a little longer. Still, the good thing about them is that the pieces are enclosed inside a sealed plastic bag so when I do get around to starting one, I know that there won't be a gap when I've finished.I tend to go for jigsaws with lots happening, especially country scenes and the more rustic the better but there is nothing more frustrating than huge amounts of blue sky where finding the correct piece becomes more of a trial and error rather than a sharp eye for detail. But the great thing about doing jigsaws is that you can carry on a conversation, listen to music, watch television or just think while you are looking for that fugitive piece. And everyone has their own technique. I like to accumulate all the straight pieces and fit together the four edges so that the frame is complete before i tackle the more difficult bits. As a child however, the most frustrating part of the whole process was being halfway through a jigsaw when you discovered the table was needed for something else and in the moving to another location, almost always some parts disappeared of part of the bit you had already completed came apart.

Another jigsaw that sits inside a frame in the attic and once adorned a different wall, portrays a craftsman or 'cooper' mending an old wooden barrel in his shed attached to the dwelling house while several other completed barrels and half a dozen hens are scattered across the area in front. The many wooden and metal strips lying nearby indicate that this is his job and that he has indeed a long day ahead but the whole picture, like the other one in the orchard suggest that there is plenty of time and the moment that is captured for ever is precious.

Isn't it strange that just as every jigsaw piece is slightly different and individual and fits correctly into just one place in the bigger picture, so God has given us individuality, made us all different and has a specific job for us to do in His greater plan. We may only be the blue sky, the grass or a brick in a wall but without us, the picture is incomplete and nobody else can exactly fulfill the role we have, though others may try. The trouble is, looking on from a distance, you can always see a piece in the wrong place but when you're only a piece in a bigger picture, you don't realise the impact that you can make on the overall scene. We need to ask God to use us exactly where He intends and then when He looks at his finished work, we will be bringing pleasure and glory to Him. Paul, in writing to the church at Ephesus, said 'He makes the whole body fit together perfectly. As each part does its own special work, it helps the other parts grow, so that the whole body is healthy and growing and full of love.' Help Him to complete His masterpiece today and don't hide any longer.

J is for JAM

If you cared to glance out of the kitchen window in the home where I was raised, you could see for miles. Over to the left was the village where we went to school and where dad collected his morning and evening papers, bought essentials that mum had run out of and also got the car serviced. There was an honesty about the whole village to the point where, even if he failed to make it into the shop before closing time, the evening copy of the Belfast Telegraph was left in a little grey box with a hinged lid just outside and if you went there at eleven o'clock at night, your copy would still be waiting for you.

Looking out the front you see all the way to the spires of the cathedral in Armagh and beyond, to the hills of Newtownhamilton, but in the summer time your gaze would not have gone far beyond the fir tree at the bottom of the garden that towered above everything else and the fruit trees that provided the raw materials for part of mum's jam making enterprise. In this particular area we had Victoria plums and though they were extremely pleasant to eat, she preferred only to use them for jam in the absence of something more appealing, so normally the plums were left to ourselves and the wasps to fight over and I can tell you there is nothing more apprehensive that closing your hand around a plum in the process of picking it, only to find a wasp nestled happily on the other side and not impressed by your disturbance.

We had therefor, to travel a little further to get the fruit that made the best jam and indeed, more correctly the jam that dad favoured and this was to be found on the delicate and fragile branches of the damson tree. To collect damsons was a dangerous occupation for at any moment a branch on which your ladder was resting, could snap without any prior warning and you were usually left either hanging precariously to an equally fragile neighbouring twig or else in a heap somewhere below the tree. But there was a method of being able to rest your ladder against such trees so that not all of your weight pressed against the wood. Anyway the trees were never very tall so any fall was unlikely to cause permanent damage. Dad probably had about twenty or thirty damson trees around the farm and often sold much of the fruit to neighbours and friends who either made it into jam or sold it on at markets. However, a selected amount was always kept for the home jam industry, not that any of the finished product ever made it beyond our home, except occasionally jar full was given as a present to an aunt, a granny or the odd visitor.

Anyway, along with some strawberries that were grown by a neighbour less than half a mile away and a few punnets of raspberries bought from one of the minor small fruit enterprises in the area, mum now had the essential ingredients to make enough jam to last the whole of the autumn, winter and spring.

Not all the jam was made at the one time, as the different fruits ripened over the whole of the summer but regardless of the fruit involved, the process didn't seem to change very much. It always involved collecting the used jam jars and marmalade jars from the out house where they were stored, washing them thoroughly in hot water and then leaving them to dry naturally. Meanwhile mum would have made a trip to the local supermarket to buy the little packs of covers that would be used to seal in the freshness until it was needed later in the year. These consisted of little circles of translucent, greaseproof paper that would sit directly on top of the jam surface, larger transparent circles of cellophane that would become the 'lids' and a selection of rubber bands that kept the covers in place. Also there were lots of little rectangular labels on which you could write the name of the jam being made. Not being an avid jam maker myself. I've no idea what other ingredients mum used, apart from plenty of sugar and some setting agent, which she tipped, with the fruit, into a huge grey, metal saucepan that had a handle attached across the top much like that found on a bucket. The fruit and sugar seemed to stew away for hours on the cooker hob and eventually she would bring the whole concoction out into the scullery and with the help of a small jug, would pour it into the waiting jam jars. After the mixture had cooled sufficiently, the covers were put in place and the completer pile of jam would be stored away in a cupboard and appear again throughout the next year.

Isn't it true that when something is placed in the right hands, even something as simple as a damson plum, it can become completely different. It would have been easier to leave the plums on the trees for the birds and the insects for it was never an easy job to collect them and they were certainly not a fruit that was very popular to eat raw, but they made beautiful jam. And so it is with us, left to our devices, we can never be what God intends us to be but when we hand everything over to Him and He takes control, He can make us into beautiful vessels to do His work and complete His plan for our lives. In John's Gospel, Jesus says 'I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.' No greater sweetness is found than in the presence of the Master.

J is for JACK RUSSELL

He came in a little cardboard box, brought into school by one of my primary six pupils and her mother. She sat the box on her desk that afternoon and we all marvelled at how small he was and how soft and fluffy. I had lots of names I thought about calling him but as he wasn't to be my pet, I put all those out of my mind and just waited for the bell to goat the end of school. I knew mum and daughter were sorry to see him go but at least they had the comfort of several other puppies back at the house and the knowledge that he would be looked after like royalty.

Mum named him Snoopy, rather original don't you think, since Peanuts was all the rage at the time and there must have been thousands of Jack Russell terriers bearing the same name. What commotion it would be if they all came running at the same time on hearing their name called! Anyway, he settled in fairly quickly to home life, with his own royal corner in the kitchen, consisting of the little cardboard box turned on its side and a soft blanket hastily arranged as a bed. Those early days were fraught with anxiety both for dog and owners and a degree of impatience too as he learned very quickly and often painfully the requirement to be house trained, though he made plenty of mistakes along the way. But he soon struck up a great friendship with both his and my parents and while dad had a degree in the art of teasing the young canine, Snoopy soon showed that he could handle anything thrown at him and on more than one occasion he bared his teeth and growled menacingly enough to convince my father that there was always a right time to stop such activities.And he loved to walk, tripping down the lane after either of them, usually at least ten or twenty yards behind with teeth chattering in that smiley sort of way that such dogs do and constant panting as if to say ' my legs are too short for this caper.'

Some time after he had arrived and was sufficiently adult, a second Jack Russell appeared. This one had beautiful brown markings and had clearly been well cared for in the past, but one day she just appeared around the house, with no explanation of whence she came or no intention of leaving. Though dad was less than impressed, mum took her in and fed her and before long she was part of the furniture, though she did seem to commute between our own house and that of the neighbours. Still, at least with mum providing the necessary nutrition, she felt that was enough to claim ownership of the little stray. Within months, however, the plot thickened, for Snoopy in his adolescent state had obviously taken a shine to his new housemate and it her increasingly rounded frame was the evidence that puppies might be forthcoming. And so we were proved right, but unfortunately she chose to nestle down in an outhouse belonging to the neighbours and when the offspring arrived at that location, we suddenly found ourselves no longer in charge of the litter. Whether they ever realised this is another matter, but within days mum had 'asked' for a puppy and was able to choose one from the litter that would join his father a few yards down the road. I don't know what happened to the rest of the dogs, whether they were sold or given away, but not long afterwards the little brown dog wandered home to mum and dad's and stayed there ever since. They called her Susie and her young son was christened Patch, always recognisable for his very long tail that seemed to wag at the slightest hint of affection shown towards him and together the little family made many walks down the lane towards the church, with mum and dad always left just a little behind but the young Patch full of energy and excitement, striding alongside his masters.

When mum and dad took ill a couple of years back, it was more than Snoopy could bear and he was clearly affected by their illnesses and subsequent passing, such had been their closeness for nearly fourteen years. HE seemed to lose any zest for life though there is no doubt that age was also taking its toll. Susie died last year and as the years passe, it became obvious that she was much older than we had thought and while the two male dogs still survive, there is always that feeling that they have lost their rightful owners and know that things will never be as they once were. Now many mornings and evenings, Snoopy can be found lying at our front door, waiting half expectantly for mum to emerge from our house as she used to do so often but knowing that it is only a dream inside his head.

But his dedication has taught me to be vigilant for the return of our Lord who has promised to return to earth. He says 'And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am.' And the importance of being ready is underlined in Mark's gospel when Jesus says 'No one knows about that day or hour, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.' Jesus' parable in Matthew 25 about ten virgins preparing to meet the bridegroom is a clear indication that those who are not ready for His return will not only be disowned but also excluded from the kingdom He has prepared. Are you waiting at the Master's door or living life as if He has gone for ever? And what if it were today?

J is for JON

I threatened to waken him this morning at 6:30am just so as he would be able to exactly celebrate twenty years of life but his initial reaction suggested that it might not be a wise action. He was born at that time on 23rd March 1988, almost eighteen months after his brother, in the maternity unit at Dungannon Hospital, a place where mothers no longer give birth but where both our sons started out life. Now, all these years later we no longer have any teenagers in our house and I wonder where the time has gone.

And how life has changed in that intervening period. So many members of our community have passed on and yet we have spent enough years in our present school to know that some of the pupils who were there when we started are now married and everyone who is there now hadn't even been born. it's a sobering thought how quickly time moves and for our own village this week, the reality of the brevity of life has been strongly brought home as the community has laid to rest three of its sons in four days.

It was a year when Ronald Reagan was still the President and the present incumbent's father was in the running to replace him, a year when Lester Piggot had his OBE taken away by the Queen, when Nelson Mandela was still in prison though the music world got together to remember his seventieth birthday, when Wimbledon won the FA Cup, Ayrton Senna was Grand Prix Champion and the Olympics were taking place in Seoul.

I don't remember much about the day itself, though I do recall being in hospital during the very early morning and, not being squeamish, being able to see things just as they happened. My main job was fairly simple. just to be there, but when the doctor handed me a utensil and told me to cut the cord, I suddenly felt that I had made some contribution to the morning. Still, the greatest moment was to hear that first cry and know that things were OK.

It seems to that years have just merged together and its hard to remember when the baby, became a toddler, the toddler became a primary school pupil and then moved on to secondary education. I suppose at the time, each day moved more slowly than we remember and very quickly you tend to forget, the childhood illnesses, the school exams, the nights of homework or music lessons, the bedtime stories, the decisions that needed to be made, the adolescent years and even the times when you have to be more firm than you want to. But you don't forget that every single day is precious and not just the days away , the holidays or the times when your child makes you so proud of them. And then suddenly you realise those days are all past and while they are so much older and hopefully wiser, you know that you are also older too. Anyway, in a sense I never want to him to grow up because it always means that time is passing more quickly than I imagine but as he prepares to go off to Ecuador for a year with a double mission to improve his Spanish and also serve God, I am thankful that as he leaves his teenage years for ever, his faith is secure and he is firmly established on the rock that is Christ Jesus. And while I'll miss his strange sense of humour, his warmth, his piano playing and his singing, now I understand a little of what God said when He spoke from heaven with these words, 'This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.' Happy Birthday Jon.

I is for I

Rummaging through the alphabet the other day, it occurred to me that only a couple of letters can really stand on their own as actual words. The first letter A is probably the most obvious but the other that readily springs to mind is the letter after H. In trying to write this particular blog, one is very aware that one has probably used this letter in its stand alone form on every single past writing so the desire will be to try and avoid using it in this current script to describe myself. One hopes that one doesn't slip up along the way.

The letter itself is really expression of one's ego and though that is perfectly acceptable to talk about things in terms of self, it is probably viewed somewhat differently when the ego becomes inflated or when self appears more important than possibly it should be. However we live in a world where ego or self has become increasingly important in almost every life, often to the detriment of others. People live for today, allowing tomorrow to take care of itself, they live for the 'now' in life, feeling that life owes them something and they are determined to get it before someone else does. When you stop to think about it for a few minutes, you might care to consider how often you use the ninth letter of the alphabet in your everyday conversation or in your thoughts and it will probably amaze even the least selfish person just how self centred we all really are.

We all have our own opinions that we like to express, we think of how the decisions of others affect us, we worry about our finances, our health, our jobs, we think of the wrongs people have done to us, we crave after certain things that we think we need, we imagine ourselves in the big houses, driving a certain car, having as cetrtain wife or husband, setting aside some 'me' time and I suppose constantly comparing ourselves with others. Individually, the message is very clear. Ego is important to everyone and quite rightly for one of the greatest causes of depression is often a lack of self esteem or self worth and if we can't at least love ourselves even with all our imperfections, it can be even more difficult to love others and ignoring their blemishes.

One read with interest this week that the Vatican has announced seven new deadly sins relevant to the modern day. These include such things as 'becoming obscenely wealthy', 'genetic modification', 'causing social injustice' and 'polluting the environment', but one can't help but think that they have missed the point for in truth while individuals may be involved in all of those things, each is hard to pin the blame on just one person and so the idea of self being at the root of the problem is slightly diluted. Yet if your read through the original seven deadly sins which list as sloth, envy, gluttony, greed, lust, wrath and pride, a clearer picture of the root of almost all our wrong doings is evident - a self centred approach to life.

This selfishness often negates the need to have any dependence on God or at least to reduce our need of Him in life, creating a world of people who are self sufficient and can manage their own lives and destination. God clearly has a different view for without His salvation we have our final destination will be not as we had hoped. The story of the wealthy farmer is a lesson to us all as he pulled down his barns, built larger ones and decided to enjoy himself. The problem was not in having a good time and enjoying the fruits of his labour but in how he excluded God completely from his plans. It is interesting to not that he uses the ninth letter or the word 'my' over ten times in the short story we read. Doesn't that say it all?

But let's not get completely despondent for there is more time when we should be completely selfish and that is with regards to our souls, for nobody else will give account before God of the life you have lived except yourself. As we reflect on this Easter weekend of God's great love and sacrifice for us, let us draw near to that bets known verse of John 3 and 16 which says 'For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.' And for the word 'whosoever' read the letter 'I'. Now that's a time when one is happy to use it.

I is for INDEPENDENCE

I remember the first time I was allowed to ride my bicycle to school on my own. Many times previously I had ridden off from the back door out through the gates and up to the top of out hill, even down the other way along the lane towards the church, but this was different. For this time, when I left the safety of home, I didn't stop at the top of the hill, but kept on going down onto the main road and beyond, in the direction of school just about a mile and a half away. Such a new sense of freedom to be using the same highway as all the other traffic users, passing the row of cottages, the pub at the corner, the sprinkling of neighbouring houses and up the steep hill they call McDowell's, a road I had viewed hundreds of times before from the passenger seat of dad's car. Then it was down the shallow incline, past the broken wire fence that marked one boundary of the local football pitch, past the police station that was home to two officers and their families, before commencing the much steeper hill that finished at the church and then downhill all the way to the school gates. There wasn't much traffic in the mornings or even on the afternoon return journey but I'm pretty sure, despite my new found independence, mum watched long at the kitchen window until I was safely up the big hill and into the village. Now, when some of my own pupils, travel the same route, mum or dad follows about ten yards behind in the family car just to ensure safe arrival, so I guess you could call that a form of semi-independence and it's understandable with the great increase in traffic even on formerly quiet country roads.Anyway, it was my first shot at being independent and deep down, I suppose the folks at home knew that it wouldn't be the last step that I would take away from the nest, until one day, I wouldn't return.

How you view independence depends on which side of the fence you sit. As a teenager , it was an opportunity to be with my own friends, choose my own clothes, go to be when I decided, get up in the afternoon if I wanted, earn my own money, make decisions about how I spent it, watch what I liked on television, choose my future wife and decide where to go on holiday. Later on, independence would mean deciding on a career, choosing where to live, organise buying or building a home, having children, purchasing a car and even saving for the future when I was maybe less independent. I'm sure mum and dad viewed some of my actions as not exactly the way they would have done things but it was my life and though they offered advice, sometimes more strongly than others, I guess they knew that the ultimate decision would probably be mine. But you know, even with all that freedom, you never really have full independence, for there is a certain degree in all of us of wanting to keep the fifth commandment that tells us to honour our fathers and mothers.

Now that I sit on the other side of the line, I realise how important it was that mum and dad allowed me to have that degree of independence, to learn from the errors I made along the way and the very fact that they were supportive to me has been a good example in helping me, hopefully, to be of a similar support to the lads as they grow up. And while we both have watched them through all the stages of increasingly not being dependent on their mum and dad, including the solo bike thing, going out with their friends, driving their own cars, learning how to handle their own finances, we both know that while we are around they still hold on to a certain amount of dependency on home, even if it is only to get clothes washed, a Sunday dinner or a place of quietness and solitude away from the hectic lives that they both seem to lead. And that greater degree of maturity and independence now gives them the confidence to make important decisions on which they can reflect, right down to deciding where they will worship and in what they exactly believe.

However the one area of life that I can't be independent about is my spiritual existence because I depend on God for my salvation and for providing me with the strength and the weapons for the spiritual battle. As the Psalmist writes 'My salvation and my honor depend on God ; he is my mighty rock, my refuge.' And while God allows us to be independent creations with our own free will, HE knows that the only real satisfaction to be found is when we become dependent on Him for all our needs. On this Good Friday I am even more aware of the price He has paid so that I might be reunited with Him. Independently, I can't make heaven without Him and though I often wander away from Him, He is always there when I realise my mistake and return to the closeness and guidance that only He can bring.

Many people think independence brings liberation. But it's dependence on God where we find true freedom.

I is for INSIDE

I had this strangest feeling late this afternoon as I drove into our cathedral city of Armagh. Once inside the thirty miles per hour signs, it soon became evident that this was no ordinary day in the life of this historical city. As I neared the gates of my old Alma mater, The Royal School, there was a large stack of what can only be described as crash barriers, sitting on the pavement at the vehicle entrance and as I moved closer to the rear pedestrian entrance door and the adjoining gravelled courtyard beyond, several more stacks of these rugged metal barriers lay waiting to be collected, the only remaining visible evidence that a major event had taken place earlier in the day. IN fact I had witnessed that historical moment, recorded on the early afternoon news, as Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II, had stepped out of her vehicle to be greeted by the Mayor and other dignitaries before going inside to meet the rest of the specially invited guests, as she celebrated with representatives of the five Royal Schools who had just reached the grand milestone of four hundred years in existence. And yet as I drove past the very door from which the red carpet had stretched to carry our Sovereign from her car to the school, I felt that I was as close to the Queen as I had ever been and probably would ever be. But just to know that she had walked on that pavement and stood inside the walls of my old school was enough to remind me that she had passed this way even though I wasn't there in person to see it happen.

My son was more fortunate. Twice in two days, he saw her, quite by accident, inside her vehicle. Once in the centre of our capital as she left the university that bears her name, though not named after her and the other time today, out in the country as her passing cavalcade of bodyguards, motorcyclists, helicopters and vehicles forced him to pause for longer than he expected at a junction as she left this part of the orchard county on her journey back home.

Others too had a much better view of Her Majesty than I, as they gathered in the great cathedral of our Patron Saint, whose day we only celebrated last Monday. They were invited to receive Maundy money from this respected lady in a custom which has traversed the history of our Royal Family but never crossed the border of England, except for one other occasion when it found it's home in the land of the dragon for one Thursday. Tonight I will watch the highlights programme on television just to see who made it inside the cathedral on such an historic day and maybe even spot one of our primary five boys who was singing like a thrush in the cathedral choir.

I've never been inside the Queen's gates never mind her home and unfortunately she can say the same about me but I'm sure it's probably pretty neat and tidy all round - a bit like my own house! Anyway if I knew she was coming, I'd probably give the place a fresh lick of paint and wife would be out with the duster and hoover for days beforehand. I suppose it's just a pity that many don't treat God with quite the same amount of respect, which is really surprising since, even though we can't see Him, He's always there so He knows already what we're like inside, though you'd think that would be enough to make some clean up their act. But isn't 'act' the key word, because it is pretty easy to put on an act for people around us but God's not into acting at all - He wants to see the real you. Isn't that why Jesus rebuked the Pharisees by telling them 'First clean the inside of the cup and dish, and then the outside also will be clean' and also added 'You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of dead men's bones and everything unclean.' It's not about looking good, it's about being good. It's not about looking happy, it's about showing joy. Does our outside reflect our inside?

I guess the people who lived in Jesus' time on earth mus have felt a bit like I did today, to know that He had passed their way, even though they didn't all get to see Him and I often wonder what an honour it must have been for Zacchaeus to be able to entertain His Creator inside his own house. Life changing I reckon. The key of course is to have His Holy Spirit living within you all the time so that nobody else can make it their home. Open your eyes, take a look inside and see who's doing the cleaning.

I is for INVITATION

A good friend invited us to a gala dinner the other night. It was a wonderful evening, a chance to catch up with a few friends, learn about how others are committed to helping the underprivileged in a third world country and maybe in some way help their cause through our giving. It was also a chance for the missus to get out the glad rags and, for once in her life, see her dearly beloved dressed up in a bow tie and black suit. A couple of things I will treasure about the evening. First the generosity of our host in inviting us as his guests. I will always remember him for that gesture and I know I can never repay him in full for making us part of his evening. But secondly, I have come to realise that at such a gathering, the right company at your table is of utmost importance and again he had thought that one out perfectly for all were at ease with each other and as they say the 'craic' was good. But I reflected on many such occasions in the past whether at weddings or similar gala functions, where my immediate neighbours were less talkative or approachable or maybe it was just me who didn't send out the necessary signals. Anyway, for whatever reason, such situations tend to develop into nothing more than 'small talk' and the wait for the next course can be very very lengthy.

A few years ago, wife got an invitation to Buckingham Palace with a group of teachers on the strength of a good inspection we had received at school. It was a wonderful experience to get beyond those famous gates and right into the heart of British Royalty and she had the pictures to prove it including a wonderful shot of one of the antiquated yet ornate Royal toilets, complete with large wooden seat.

I think some of the nicest invitations are those that come unexpectedly. Like most people we have had our share of wedding invites and after wedding parties. Both differ greatly in that those who have been at a wedding service and reception all day, often find themselves starting to flag by late afternoon and many go home before the evening party has really got into full swing, while those who are arriving for the after party are all set for a night's revelling. But sometimes it's hard to gel into an evening do, especially if the majority of guest are strangers to you. Anyway, it's still nice to be invited for there are many who would love to go but never receive the invitation. When I was young, most invitations either arrived at the house in an envelope or else it was a verbal invitation by phone or in person. All these years later, while those still happen, we are more likely to receive an invite in a text message or an email, but no matter what way it arrives, it always requires a response of some sort. The thing about invitations is that you don't actually have to accept any of them but sometimes there are those that you just don't want to say no to. And then there are others that you feel obliged to accept because of the nature of the invite or the person who sent it.

Of course the most important invitations is the one that Jesus issues to everyone, a universal invite in Matthew 11 v 8, when He says, 'Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.' But He does more than just invite us to come to Him when He says in Revelation 3v20 'Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me.' It's not often someone arrives at you door waiting to be invited in, but when they carry the greatest message of salvation, isn't it time to think about sending out the invitation?

I is for INCH

The other day it suddenly occurred to me that, despite the blaze of publicity and hype surrounding the centimetre that has allowed it to be our main unit of measurement for the last thirty or so years, the humble inch has not been forgotten, nor has its close allies, the foot, yard and mile. One of our school caretakers and myself were working out the dimensions of an external noticeboard that we hoped to purchase and as I measured the length and width using a metre ruler, he was already converting it to feet and inches and admitted that the metric system is not for him. Indeed he would have many bedfellows in the building trade who still measure everything in the old imperial units and for whom centimetres and metres are just a hindrance that has to be converted into something they know. The inch itself seems to have originally been a measure of the width of a thumb, while the foot was the length of an average human adult's foot and the yard the distance from the tip of the nose to the top of the middle finger of an outstretched hand. So no need to carry a tape measure around - as long as you were a bit of a contortionist! Yes those were the days, when twelve inches made a foot,three feet made a yard as did thirty six inches and you needed the magic number of sixty three thousand, three hundred and sixty of the little blighters to make a mile. Yes, everything we had learned and used for all those years was taken away in the pursuit of being the same as everywhere else in Europe. Why they even replaced our acre with a hectare, yet when I look out over our farm fields, I know exactly by the size of a field , just how many acres are there but hectares is an area I've never explored with any confidence. One of our most famous politicians will be long remembered for his 'not an inch' policy though many would suggest he has moved more than a centimetre in recent times. Still I suppose that's not as far as an inch!

It made me think of all the other things that seemed to disappear, somewhere about the same time, but have never been forgotten. Like some of the television programmes that used to occupy our little black and white, non LCD, non plasma, non remote control, non flat screened televisions. Things like Z Cars (though Everton FC have a habit of at least keeping the theme tune alive), the Black and White Minstrels (that just wouldn't see the light of day in out politically correct world), The Avengers, Robinson Crusoe (with that captivating sad theme music), Casey Jones, Dixon of Dock Green, Peyton Place 9though we were never allowed to watch it on Sunday night), Sportsnight with Coleman, Opportunity Knocks, Emergency Ward Ten, Ready Steady Go, Armchair Theatre, Steptoe and Son and Dickie Henderson.

And as the inch began to fade, so did the Beatles, TheSound ofMusic, Dallas, Muhammad Ali, Graham Hill, typewriters, stereograms, valve radios and a host of other things that we had become accustomed to having around. In their place came computers, transistors, Mike Tyson, Michael Schumacher, hi fi, Jurassic Park, Sesame Street, video recorders, colour television, microwaves, Pampers, the internet and the Rubik Cube. Even in sport we no longer have the one hundred yards sprint, the two twenty or the mile, the twenty five , the ten yard line and the five yard scrum have all gone in rugby but thankfully Steven Gerrard can still score great goals from thirty yards!

Sometimes I wish my boys could have known some of these things as they happened but I guess that is one of the great wonders of life, that every generation has its own heroes and yesterday's hero is today's history. But I suppose we all cling on to things from the past, whether it be a singer or band we grew up with, a footballer we idolised, a television programme we never missed, a holiday destination we visited as children, or even something as simple as the units we use to measure with. When Jesus asks us to follow Him, there is no turning back, no clinging to former things, no hankering after the past. One man's reply to Jesus' call was 'Lord, first let me go and bury my father." But Jesus replied, "Let the dead bury their own dead, but you go and proclaim the kingdom of God." It's so easy for things to get in our way when He calls, but you know we don't have to forget them, we just have to make Jesus first in our lives and then we'll realise what's truly important and, like the old chorus, 'the things of earth will grow strangely dim, in the light of His glory and grace.' To miss heaven by inches is to miss it by miles. But it's not to late to convert.

I is for ISAAC

I've always thought that Isaac was a bit hard done by. He's not the most well known of the Old Testament patriarchs and he starts off life being born to a father who has already reached one hundred years of age. Hardly an auspicious start to life! But you can imagine the commotion in his parents' house when, God informs Abraham that his wife, who is already a very old woman, who never could have children and is now well past the child bearing age is going to have a son. And then think about the excitement when it actually happens.

But it's not long before God wants to test Abraham's faith and of course Isaac become central to that testing as God tells His father to sacrifice His only son, for whom he had waited so long. I wonder did the young Isaac have any suspicions? I'm sure he must have had some strange and bewildering thoughts as he lay on top of the hastily constructed sacrificial altar. Hardly good for the nerves, I would have thought! But having survived that scare, a few years later he discovers that his dad is choosing his wife, the daughter of his own uncle.

It is clear that Isaac loved Rebekah, but the old family problem of not being able to have children rears its head again and Isaac prays to God for help. He has to wait twenty years after his marriage, by which time he is now sixty before Rebekah becomes pregnant and then gives birth to twins. It's a bit like the buses in Belfast used to be - you wait ages for one and then two come along at the same time! Anyway, these are no ordinary twins in God's eyes because they will struggle both inside and outside the womb and their descendants will form two separate nations and continue the struggle far beyond Bible times, but one of the nations will become God's chosen people through Isaac's son Jacob, later called Israel.

Yet that's not where Isaac's problems end. IN a time of famine, he moves to the Philistine country but because of 'interest' in his beautiful wife he portrays her as his sister, until he is found out by no less than the king. Under the Philistine sovereign's protection he flourishes and becomes extremely wealthy, to the point where he is the subject of extreme jealousy by his neighbours who fill up the water wells that he has dug. Forced to move on, his nomad life becomes a series of quarrels over wells with other dwellers until he finds a more permanent home in Beersheba.

Meanwhile, his first son, only by a few seconds of course, marries a couple of wives - never a good idea at the best of times and the Bible suggest that 'They were a source of grief to Isaac and Rebekah.' But his younger son causes him even more grief when he steals the blessing from Esau by deceiving his father in his aging blindness. But Isaac is still not finished and in a moment remarkably similar to that of his father, he instructs Jacob not to take a wife from Canaanite women but to go elsewhere in search of a partner.

Isaac lived to the grand old age of one hundred and eighty but it wasn't exactly a straight forward life and, like I say, I think he was hard done by at times. Yet God never forgot him and so often in the New Testament God is referred to as the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob so his importance in the greater plan of things is clear.

When I get to heaven, I'm looking forward to having a conversation with the great man about that sacrifice that nearly happened, about his marriage to Rebekah and the troubles of being a parent of twins. How do I know he will be there? Because Jesus says so. Though He does deliver a warning to us all about making certain that we will be with him too when He says, 'There will be weeping there, and gnashing of teeth, when you see Abraham, Isaac and Jacob and all the prophets in the kingdom of God, but you yourselves thrown out.' God's plan of redemption, just like the heaven He has prepared, is open for all for 'People will come from east and west and north and south, and will take their places at the feast in the kingdom of God.' (Luke 13 v 29). His love is all encompassing and He doesn't want you to miss out on that conversation with Isaac.

I is for ISCARIOT

I have often wondered about some of the most infamous people in society, not so much because of the despicable deeds that they are remembered for, but more so in relation to the exact point in their lives when a change occurred that caused them to turn form relatively normal human beings into the monsters that made them worldwide news. I think of a young Adolph Hitler, raised in Austria with his brothers and sisters and a mother who was his father's third wife, where most of his siblings didn't reach adulthood, a boy supposedly beaten by his father until he reached the stage that he resolved not to cry when this happened, a lad who seemed to have no appetite for school work and dropped out of the education system by the age of sixteen, who failed to follow his father's wishes to become a custom's official like his dad, but instead chose the career of an artist until he finally ended up penniless and without a home. A young man who would never serve the country of his birth in war but would fight for his adopted nationality across the border and one day would allow his hatred of Jews to resurface with dire consequences. Maybe it's not so hard to work out why he became a monster.

I think of a young Saddam Hussein, born into a family of shepherds in Iraq, given a name by his mother that means 'one who confronts' and never knowing his father who left before he was born. A young boy who would spend the first few years of life living with his uncle before returning to his remarried mother and then being harshly treated by his new step-father before escaping home to go back to his uncle, a veteran Iraqi nationalist and eventually marrying his uncle's daughter by which time much of his future thinking had carefully been moulded into his mind though high school, law school and his uncle's support for revolution. And we wonder why he turned out the way he did.


I think of Idi Amin, born somewhere in Uganda in the first quarter of the last century, but whose early home life was also disrupted by the absence of a father and whose school life ended early. I think of an outstanding soldier who on first coming to power, was welcomed by the whole world for his ideals of a democracy being reestablished in his home country. The fact that he never gave much more than lip service to his original intentions would soon be seen throughout the ravages that Uganda would experience during his presidency, but somewhere along the line there must have been a change in his thinking.


I think of many others, maybe less infamous on a world scale, whose memories are less than cherished. Of Harold Shipman, a doctor who became a serial killer but whose early history, apart from a minor drugs offence, never suggested the deaths to which he would sink. Of Fred West, whose tortured early years would have a profound effect on his later life and who would become equally gruesome in his own tortures. Of Peter Sutcliffe, a loner at school who also left education early and moved from job to job with out any real commitment, but nothing concrete from his past suggested that he would murder thirteen people in just over five years.


And I think of Judas the one they called Iscariot, who would be known for ever as the disciple who betrayed Jesus, who sold his master for thirty pieces of silver, who suddenly realised his wrong doing but could never turn back the clock once the wheels had been set in motion and who tragically took his own life. And I think of a young man who left whatever job he had to follow this Jesus, who didn't have to think twice before going, who spent over three years in the company of God, witnessing His miracles, His words and His compassion, who looked after the money for the disciples, but who would ultimately find money to be his downfall. And somewhere in those three years, Judas changed for ever. I wondered was it the time he rebuked Mary for wasting expensive perfume on Jesus, suggesting that it could have been sold to feed the poor. I wondered did he really mean what he said then. I wondered had he become envious of Jesus or other disciples who seemed to be closer to his master. I wondered did he know already when Jesus told him that he would be the betrayer and I wonder did he ever give any real thought to the consequences for the rest of mankind. Whatever his reasons, simple show of affection kissed not only the future of his master goodbye but also his own. But I don't have to wonder why we rarely hear of a new born baby boy being named Judas by his parents. Yet in the great scheme of God's planning, Judas was a necessary part of delivering Jesus to be crucified. How strange the way God works to achieve His plans!


On this Palm Sunday, as we remember the crowds singing Hosanna in the streets and waving the palm branches, we also remember their silence in a courtroom and a hillside a few days later and we also remember, like Judas, that we can live in the very shadow of our Saviour, witness His power and greatness around us, even pray to Him and sing hymns of praise and still not really know Him at all. 'May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing to you, O Lord, my rock and my redeemer.' (Psalm 19v14)

I is for INFANT

I don't remember being an infant, which is probably hardly surprising as it tends to cover that period of my life roughly before Ii was one year old and certainly before I could walk or talk. The word itself appears to be a derivative of an old Latin word 'in-fans' which, in translation, meant being unable to speak though infants tend to make up for that inadequacy in other ways as wife and I found out with our own. We often talk about the infant classrooms in school but it's pretty obvious that this is a misnomer, for the young four or five year olds who form the first year of primary school, since they already can walk and run and tumble and often speak as if they need to tell you all the words they know in one sentence.

IN retrospect, though not from actual memory, infancy must be one of the best times of one's life and also one of the most satisfying and contented periods. In that first year or eighteen months, there is no desire to be at another stage of life as the young mind grapples with the simplicities of feeding,sleeping and bowel emptying. Indeed there is little else to occupy their minds apart from the stationary mobile, which is in itself a contradiction in terms, hanging above their pram or cot and a few plastic or soft toys that make a variety of clangs, whistles and creaks, supposedly to stimulate the young mind to investigate or at the very least smile. But, and again this is not from personal knowledge, there doesn't appear to be any great desire to return to an earlier stage of life, i.e. back inside the warmth of another human being, nor is there any hurry to explore the great big world that awaits. And despite the colic or hunger induced cries, there is a strong element of contentment with no wish to be five, ten, twenty or fifty years older. I guess when your mind is still coming to terms with daylight and colour, there is enough going on inside your head without having to think about the future. And isn't that probably the only period in our lives when we don't actually worry, though I reckon we do have the occasional thought about when or from where our next meal is coming. But as parents, aren't we so eager to rush our infants beyond this extraordinary stage of life, impatiently waiting for the first recognisable word, dangling their little legs above the carpet in the hope that they will try to take that first step, wanting them to enjoy Christmas and Santa Clause before they even know Jesus exists and taking them to the beach when they still see sand as a possible food.


Once they become mobile, they stop becoming an infant and the toddler stage commences with a whole world their oyster to explore, yet that could happen in just a few days and the toddler is hardly much wiser than the infant they were last week. Now, away from the constant safety of a mother or father, the confines of a pram, cot or playpen, danger lurks at every corner, new thoughts and ideas begin to formulate and with it the first signs of worry and very soon, the world will never be the same again. I think it's about this stage that most of us begin to feel longing in our lives, maybe for being another age, being somewhere else, often longing for something we see and rarely does that feeling ever go away again. When I was an infant I don't recall longing for anything for all I needed was provided but within a few short years, I was longing to ride a tricycle, then a bike, then drive the tractor and eventually the car. But our longings come in all different forms. Often it is the longing for a new car, a expensive piece of jewellery, a different house, a job, a girlfriend, boyfriend, husband or wife, a skill we don't possess, an appliance that everybody else seems to have, a holiday or more money. And very often it is a longing to be at another stage of life, wishing that we were older, left school or university, earning in a job, having a family, or even retired. As I get older, sometimes I long for earlier times in my life again, when I was young enough to play sport competitively or play music that everyone listened to, to be without the responsibilities that come with increasing age and family life and very occasionally, just to be a child again.


Right now though, I long for only one thing and that is for God to use me in His service. It's strange, having travelled so far and been blessed so much in my human experience that the longing to please Him is now stronger than it has ever been. And when HE answers my prayer, as I know He will, I know I will once again be in that place of complete contentment, like an infant whose mother and father cars for every part of their life.Paul makes several reference to this state of contentment in his writings telling Timothy that 'Godliness with contentment is great gain,' but also revealing to the Philippian church that 'I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want' and finally warning in his letter to the Hebrews 'Keep your lives free from the love of money and be content with what you have, because God has said, "Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you."' As I travel the road where longing has become part of everyday life and where satisfaction is a word often confined to the past, I urge you to rediscover the contentment that is found in Him and come as a little child to His feet.

I is for INK

It was only the tiniest mark but I knew the minute it happened, she had seen it. A minuscule piece of meat just breathed on my tie as it fell to the floor, but my glance downwards was enough to arouse suspicion in her head and within an instant, the eyes were focused on the centre of my shirt, like a cheetah zooming in on its next kill. And then there was that look which, without uttering a word of accompaniment, seemed to say, 'how could you?' How could I? I mean it wasn't as if I had completed some premeditated ritual, that I had spent the whole day planning that precisely halfway through our evening meal I would casually, but deliberately allow a sliver of beef to descend towards the ground but to brush my tie ever so slightly on its journey. However, regardless of my unintentions, there it was lying on the floor, there she was glaring in my direction and there I was, in the soup again, though not literally, for I think that would have put her completely over the edge. Still one gains a degree of satisfaction from the fact that I am not the only husband who acts in such an inconsiderate way at the table and she is not the only wife who finds it to be intolerable behaviour. However I have a long history of similar disasters over the years and a back catalogue of stained or ruined items of clothing ranging from ties and jumpers through to shirts and trousers, some of which still carry a meal time story which I'd rather not hear again. Indeed if I had a dollar for every such unfortunate incident, I would be buying Marks and Spencers rather than shopping in it.And just a word of advice for all those prospective food droppers out there. Explanations are a waste of time for the words 'accident' and 'stain' do not appear to sit comfortably together in the female mind but 'deliberate' and 'ruined' are firm friends.

Yet while gravy, meat, custard, ice cream, jelly, orange juice, milk, fried rice, curry sauce, baked beans, coleslaw and melted butter have all left their own impression down the years, none is quite so stubborn to remove as ink. Almost always, I keep pens in my shirt or trouser pocket and on more than one occasion have been the victim of a leak. Sometimes I'm the last person to notice, until I arrive in the staffroom at break or lunch time and wonder why everybody is staring at where my heart should be or the top of my right leg. Before long, some 'kind' colleague is sure to ask me why my light blue shirt has a red pocket or why my brown trousers are blue on one side. The trouble is, the minute it happens, I know there is no way back and I will be sporting that shirt or those trousers on their very last public appearance. And believe me, it has happened. You see there is no such thing as a leak proof pen. I have the multicoloured shirts to prove it, yet despite several mishaps, I never seem to learn and the next 'accident' can only be somewhere down the road. Which makes me wonder if it really is an accident, when I know that sooner or later it is going to happen. Could I prevent it? Probably. Just in the same way that I could keep my clothes stain free at meal time by enclosing myself in a boiler suit or removing those items of valuable clothing prior to eating, though I guess this would be unacceptable behaviour in most restaurants!

I keep a bottle or two of ink in school, some bought initially for calligraphy and others for the sole purpose of refilling empty printer cartridges. But I have found, even in these more controlled conditions, that traces of the liquid are still able to find their way on to my clothes. So now they sit, in solitary confinement, on a shelf in my classroom for that is the only way I can remain stain free. And isn't that the same for my walk with God, for it's easy to become stained just by being around sin and evil, even when there is no premeditated plan to get so close. Sooner or later, my carelessness leads to a stain and if only I had stayed away, I would be still clean. That's why in teaching us to pray, Jesus reminds us to say 'lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one' for He knows that getting too close may have drastic consequences. But it's not always so easy for every day we are placed in situations that can so easily stain us so like the Psalmist who says 'Don’t keep looking at my sins.Remove the stain of my guilt,' we need to constantly walk close to God and take the advice of Paul in writing to the church at Rome when He says 'Therefore do not let sin reign in your mortal body so that you obey its evil desires.'

Isn't it good to know that God has the greatest stain remover ever in His Son Jesus Christ who is always ready to make everything about us like new again and better still, never to remember our past stains. 'Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they are red as crimson, they shall be like wool.' Take care!

I is for ISLAND

When youngest son reached the grand old age of ten we took him to an island for a break. Actually the break lasted only about an hour and we walked all the way. But just before you start to think that we had some miraculous powers of travel, there was no water around the island at the time. In fact there never is, except sometimes when the field becomes slightly flooded due to incessant downpours or an overflowing nearby river. And there on the island he had his birthday party with some friends from school. It was indeed his first major birthday party, which seems a bit mean on our part, on first impressions, but the truth is that he had usually celebrated his birthday with grandparents but just that year, he chose to be different. No pressure! Anyway the whole part of going to this land-locked island was to hunt for eggs - of the chocolate variety. And before anyone changes their plans and makes their way towards this chocolate egg heaven, I have some bad news. The eggs were only there because eldest son and I had gone on before the main party and hidden them under stones, on top of bricks, balanced on branches, stuck into crevices, even too close to nettles for comfort. Now almost ten years later, there might still be an egg lurking in the shadows for I'm not sure if they were all retrieved, but I would reckon on decomposition having done its bit for mother earth by now.

Standing outside our house, you would never begin to think that we live on an island for no matter which direction you gaze, there is no coastline in sight and even if you could see a shore it would still not offer absolute proof that we were surrounded by water. I suppose, like most people, my concept of an island is something you can actually see sitting in the middle of an ocean or a sea, or something that you could drive, cycle or walk around in an hour or two, where you could hug the shoreline all the way. Certainly not a great big mass of land that seems totally self sufficient. Still compared with the rest of the UK we are certainly a more conceivable island, yet in a sense no more or less so than huge land masses like the world's biggest island, Greenland. Which immediately poses the question, when does a piece of land stop becoming an island. I only ask this because in my geographical memory, Australia is completely surrounded by water but I don't hear too many referring to it as an island and if you want to take it a step further, the whole land mass of America, north and south is lying in the middle of a huge puddle yet to call it an island might be correct but absurd at the same time. I've been to many islands, including the Canaries, the Balearics, the West Indies and of course not forgetting the Easter egg island down the field and it always amazes me how,even on a small island, communities can operate in so many different ways, only a few miles apart and even some which live as if the coast never existed.

The Christian preacher, John Donne, once said 'No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind.' Much later Paul Simon was to challenge such thinking in his song, 'I am a rock, I am an island,' yet his reason for writing such lyrics seemed to be more based on the fact that human friendship had been a disappointment to him. Why else would he have written ' I have my books and my poetry to protect me,I am shielded in my armour,Hiding in my room, safe within my womb,I touch no one and no one touches me.' And then he ends with the line 'And a rock feels no pain, and an island never cries.' I suppose there are elements of truth in both points of view, but the more I learn about an island, the more I realise that it's not until you see it from a distance that you begin to realise just how isolated you can become living there. And as Christians we need the comfort, encouragement, fellowship of fellow believers as we walk along this path. Paul tells the Corinthian Christians 'Now you are the body of Christ, and each one of you is a part of it' and also confirms the need for fellowship to the Thessalonians when he writes 'Therefore encourage one another and build each other up, just as in fact you are doing.' Sometimes I feel like an island, other times I want to be an island but I'm always glad to see a ship stop at the shore!