Category Archives: Me

The Cattle on a Thousand Hills

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In a week when Saddleback or Blencathra in Cumbria went up for sale and this story appeared about a family of birds taking up residence in a letter box in Suffolk, we have been doing much thinking ourselves about homes and property.

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It has struck me that our human conventions regarding land and property ownership are somewhat absurd in the bigger scheme. I have long thought that being able to just be in a beautiful place is just as satisfying as – and much less expensive than – owning the place. I hope Saddleback will be sold to people who allow it to be entrusted to generations of walkers. Walkers from many places, booted, flip-flopped or four-pawed, of every description and brand of weatherwear. It will make very little difference to many of us who owns great spaces, as long as we still have the opportunity to be there, to breathe the air and to study the views, to appreciate the big and the small as if we never noticed them before. It is possible that a sealed bid from a malevolent faction could buy Blencathra outright and seal off the land from visitors, but part of the joy and beauty of such places is their accessibility to so many more folk than just those who manage and pay for their upkeep.

Animals do not recognise or need to comply with human property claims. In our garden alone, numerous claims could be made for the space. There are blue tits nesting on the wall, claiming their space this season and feeding their noisy young from what they can harvest around the area.

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There are two cats who spend their nights in a house on the street backing ours but most daytimes guarding their territory, which now extends throughout our back garden and right up to our back door. With all the front of teenagers they chase and tease bees and butterflies, slink behind plants and sit for hours, frowning. Clearly they are full owners of our garden in the eyes of the feline land registry.

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Then there are the guinea pigs, whose access to safe rectangles of garden on dry days makes them equally entitled to the land and its grass and dandelion leaves, not to mention their hutch, which they have almost exclusive use of. What’s an odd snail or spider to a herbivore?

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There is a comic robin who bounds up and down between the wall and the grass. He always looks like he’s about to get to the punchline, but he never does. Robins are territorial too. Timing is everything; I always forget the camera.

What about pigeons? Or gulls? Or the odd squirrel? Or the many many insects and spiders?

Taking it to another level, do the plants moshing out of their beds and jostling for life between the stones and gravel have a claim on the land?

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Perhaps, foolishly, we too could say we own it.

But we only have any rights to ownership under human conventions and then only temporarily. I prefer to think of everything we own as being on loan to us. We are guardians. Keepers. Entrusted with responsibility and graced with a journey of seasons and promise.

You see, none of it is really ours. God made it all, owns it all and has the final say, not us. He owns ‘the cattle on a thousand hills’ which is Psalm 50’s poetic way of saying that God tops any rich list and all we have is from Him.

Someone has made an offer on our house. We have put in an offer on another house, trusting that soon God will provide the home we need for raising our family. He has already provided a school place for Joseph against all reasonable odds in a full year group and a popular location, at some distance. Maybe we’ll be sharing our garden with plants, animals and birds. We hope we can share the new place for which we will be guardians with many friends and family for many years to come.

Mindful Eating

Beating depression and anxiety is akin to marching uphill. Marching daily against the laws of emotional entropy and greedy gravity.

It turns out I don’t march so well on a full stomach. I have been comfort eating now for the past few months to the point where I don’t feel right watching TV or starting the next activity without a snack and there is always always a reason to eat. This is not right. I’ve been here before: I graduated several sizes larger than usual because eating and revision just go so well together. I changed my eating habits and lost weight gradually and sufficiently to marry three years later a size or two smaller than usual.

Marriage doesn’t always mean keeping the weight off. Those inches kept creeping back. I have never minded much how I look, but for the sake of my family and my arteries I have been having reservations about all the calories and unhealthy snacks I’ve been consuming lately.

I mentioned these worries to my counsellor recently, who had a great tool for me to use. I want to share it here for my own accountability and to encourage others. I have tried it for the past few days and it is having some success already.

It is an acronym. When I feel like eating, I need to ask myself:

Am I Hungry?

Am I Angry?

Am I Lonely?

Am I Tired?

If I am angry, lonely or tired, there are solutions which do not involve food (and I can ask others to help me in this too). If I am genuinely hungry, I should stop and think what my body actually needs to eat. What does my body really crave? Part of learning mindfulness to beat anxiety is in recognising thinking habits, acknowledging worries, anger and fears and becoming very aware of the moment. When you stop and savour something all your senses can be used. If I tune in to what my body really needs I can start to provide it. Sometimes my children just need an orange, or some milk, or a tomato. They are more in tune with their bodies’ needs than I am. I’m still in creme egg season and using food up because we have it, not because it is what would bring healing and wholeness.

There is still a time for cheese straws and chocolate. But there is also a time for carrots and kale. I am not going to tackle this one head on because I have a real problem with eating too much and too often. I am going to go at it slowly but surely. Having the HALT principle will help me, because I work well with a general rule. These next few weeks I am hoping to learn to savour things better and enjoy what is good and right.

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House-hunting Outside the Box

 

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My dad calls it divergent thinking, but I suspect my need to think outside the box in any and every situation has been a large part of my mental health issues these last twelve months. If I have one thought it spreads like a firework. If I have a box of thoughts, I need plenty of space to watch all the fireworks.

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When I got very ill twelve months ago the fireworks fizzled and fell. I had to accept limitations and let go.

This letting go has not come about lightly: there are a dozen areas I would like to do more in, a hundred people I would like to help, a thousand things that need thinking through.

But I am learning to let go. Let go of ideals I cannot reach. Let go of people who hurt me. Let go of wrong self-image. Let go of anger. Let go of trying to ‘achieve’ to impress. Let go of turning up the heat. The cold never bothered me anyway.

I am now at a stage where I need to harness what is good and right about my divergent thinking. The instant creativity when I’m in a good place and Joe decides we need to make an apple tree from things in the kitchen, for example. Or helping Lily remember a new times table. Or finding a recipe for ingredients we already have in. Being academically thorough because it hurts not to. Little baby steps that indicate I’m heading in a good direction.

And I’m part of a great team. My husband is single-minded and inspires me to focus rather than diverge. As a result we now have a great ‘get the house ready for viewings’ system, including keeping things in sensible places, having empty drawers at the ready for items on surfaces and not panicking when the ‘wrong’ load of washing is doing as I know it will all get straightened out soon and that I’m going to be ok whatever the outcome. Just keep swimming, Lucy.

We are convinced that God’s purposes are driving our endeavours to relocate, so the emotional energy I have can be spent focused on practical and reasonable tasks. Today Joe and I got to toddlers; a wonderful opportunity to see friends and how things have developed in great ways there. Later this afternoon I showed the fifth couple in eight days around our house. It used up all I had left emotionally. Corners have to be cut elsewhere: manageable cleaning and tidying, efficient use of time, time off alone, not counting the calories, not stressing over what I cannot control. Improvements are evident in lots of directions, for which I am utterly grateful, even when pushed to my emotional limits.

One task I love doing is house-hunting, and I go at it with a combination of God-driven purpose, single-mindedness learnt from my husband and outside-the-box problem-solving techniques I can’t help but bring to the table. One of my sustaining strengths is writing and it appears that another is researching.

Cycle of Grace

Armed with access to the internet and a couple of clever spreadsheets, I review the houses that have appeared on our search radius on a frequent basis. They are constantly changing as we are moving to an area of short supply and high demand. A house we viewed at the weekend is currently in a bidding war and already at  £43,000 above the asking price, days after appearing on the market. We did not bid on it, as we cannot buy until we sell. But I am making sure I do my outside-the-box homework. Systematically.

Rightmove is the most useful of the property search websites I use, with their various search tools, floor plans, school distance maps, and invaluable Saved Properties feature. Zoopla is better for learning about sold house prices, with interesting heat maps and information on what sold in various streets if you are prepared to work through in detail when you are serious about a property. As we are searching within a target geographical area we’ve realised it also pays to get registered with local agents who send you information ahead of homes appearing on the market and to check their own websites, which update sooner than Rightmove.

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We like to know how long a property has been marketed, and whether the sellers have changed agent at some stage. While EPC checks on the energy rating are some use if they have a date, they are valid for up to ten years so weren’t necessarily produced for the most recent sale. We downloaded a toolbar from Property Bee (which uses Firefox) with a sidebar listing price changes and number of weeks on the market. Fascinating stuff. As our own house is proving to be a niche market, we know this doesn’t prove everything, but is useful to check out whether a property has not sold for some months, so that we can check why that might be and whether the vendors are willing to consider a lower offer.

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If a house looks promising, I like to familiarise myself with the area. Nothing beats driving or walking around in person, but some useful sites for getting extra information from a distance are Google Maps (especially with Street View and to check distances and routes by car, foot, bike or public transport, which may impact upon the children as they get older), Bing Maps (for Bird’s eye views of the location from North, South, East and West) and the Environment Agency‘s pages on flood risks from rivers and elsewhere. Online regional planning information is useful to determine the scale and dates of development for a property, currency of local greenbelt, the year the street was built and an indication of whether extensions of one sort or another might be granted. Wikipedia is a surprisingly good source of information on village life if there are links to local community websites as well as history of the area.

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I have learnt a lot about school catchments (including relevant high schools) from Cambridgeshire’s education admissions website, and we applied for Joseph’s school place based on data we picked up online as well as a couple of visits. If he should not get any of our three choices, we will be able to find out quickly where there are spaces in both his and Lily’s year groups for September so that they can be together if possible in another local school. Ofsted reports and data tables tell you a certain amount, as do schools’ own websites, but going around a real school and meeting staff there, as well as learning about schools from local people where possible are much more fruitful. We have also taken a keen interest in location and websites of churches in the places we’ve been looking at, as a strong community church will have a big impact on us as a family and we’d like it to be not too far to travel to. Hakuna Matata, as they say.

So, lots of things to keep this divergent mind happy in a useful way on days when I want to crawl into my mindspace all by myself and shut the door. When we are moved I know what my next project will be, as I am preparing a book. However, I cannot write a book and move house and raise a family at the same time. I have learnt to let go and focus on what is best. Freedom within fixed constraints allows me opportunity to thrive and feel useful. I am moving from the first quadrant in the Grace Cycle (Acceptance) to the second (Sustaining Strength). I am allowed to write. I am allowed to research. I have a value and a purpose, and I feel like a room without a roof.

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Quote

Shell

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Sugar: You collect shells?
Joe: Yes. So did my father and my grandfather. You might say we had a passion for shells. That’s why we named the oil company after it.

Brilliant writing. Fantastic delivery by Tony Curtis, mimicking Cary Grant in Some Like It Hot.

I love a great joke.

Words are great.

Words are not always what is needed, however.

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Which is why these shells spoke to me this week. They were a gift from a wonderful friend on a beach in Albania and remind me of our time there. They are beautiful homes for tiny, insignificant creatures. They are engineered to be strong so that the little molluscs don’t need to be. I love how they combine art and maths. Creation and evolution. Grace and freedom.

This week we are making huge family decisions and several centre on identity and belonging. Location. Careers. Finances. How much to sell for. Value. Cost. I am out of words. I am pretty much out of numbers too.

But I am not out of feelings. I still feel the ache when my son gets a high temperature. I still grieve when my husband’s company mess him about for the umpteenth time. I still reel when my daughter’s school require three non-uniform outfits in the space of eight school days. I worry for others in my family going through big changes. I tremble as the inner anxious me faces the enormity of spending money on a house – a bunch of rooms – while others struggle without. I don’t want a grand place. But I do crave somewhere we can each be who we are truly meant to be. To grab hold of the dream and live it. We feel called to a particular spot and convicted in the need to move there, from a place of love and great memories and super friends, to a place where our names are only known to a few and where we need to forge our passions in a brighter furnace. Engineering. Writing. Ministering to students, immigrants, parents, young adults, those with needs. Enabling. Connecting in community and church. Raising our family. Living the adventure of Love we set out on together ten years ago by enabling each other and growing stronger together. It will come at a cost, but not doing this would certainly cost us more.

Thank goodness for Grace, tying it all together so that there is sense and purpose when we might otherwise give up. This season of brokenness has also been a season of refining and focus.

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Dangers, Toils and Snares

The children have been taking a keen interest in road signs, since I have been occasionally allowing them to sit in the front of the car. According to Joe, these signs really are quite clear:

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no blue paint allowed,

nowhitepaintno white paint allowed.

For this and many other reasons I am not allowing him driving privileges just yet. He sees signs, but he cannot interpret them correctly. He knows there are dangers but he usually trusts me to get him from A to B. That is, as long as he can have Radio 1 or One Direction playing. And hot air blowing in his face. And his feet resting on the glove box. And lots of questions about levers, buttons and how many minutes until something happens. And a host of opinions only a parent can listen to. When that parent is in the mood for listening.

Clearly his passenger seat privileges are not automatic. But I learn a lot about him while he is showing a keen interest in engines, driving and making sense of his world.

Lily is another story. Lily is well aware of dangers, real and imagined and cannot believe she will ever be brave enough to take responsibility for a vehicle. She has decided she never wants to use a gear stick. She reads signs and understands the words. If she sees any of these, she is keen to make sure that I have too:

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But she is a very interesting passenger for other reasons. Sitting next to me with the road ahead of both of us, she opens up more about aspects of her life, thinking and dreams. I learn a lot about her while she is showing a keen interest in facts, ideas and making sense of her world.

All this driving around with the children, their interests and the dangers they are and aren’t aware of resonates with my thinking on Grace right now.

Through many dangers, toils and snares I have already come;

‘Tis Grace has brought me safe thus far, and Grace will lead me home.

This mad journey through depression, anxiety and everyday parenting is littered with signs of every description. Books, music, advice, jokes, stories, blogs, sermons, events, friendships. Some are clearly in my best interests, guiding me or slowing me down. Others are harder to interpret – perhaps I don’t have the tools right now – and I cannot navigate alone. I have a wonderful set of friends, counsellors and family working with me through these spots, and God’s Grace is clearly carrying me through even the darkest miles. There are clearly dangers – visible and invisible. Toils – hard work, sacrifices and tough decisions to make. Snares – temporary and habitual. Blood, sweat and tears. The world, the flesh and the devil. So many signs. Sensory overload at times – frequently, in fact.

The experience of learning deep trust for our relocation is strangely healing. It is necessary to focus on one thing at a time. The stress levels do rise at times – this week alone there have been hard decisions to make, and there will be more. But the journey is progressing and the companionship of God and his utter faithfulness and love is readily apparent because we are on the journey. Sitting in the passenger seat I can talk about my passions and fears with God and allow his Grace to carry me, help me make sense of my world and navigate me on routes I do not recognise. He’s brought me safe thus far. Against all the odds. I know he will bring me safely home.

The thing with the words

Can you use short words? Can you use just a few words? Does it help? Would it help the people who read the words?

Can you say a lot with a little?

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Many thanks to the rather wonderful xkcd site for this explanation of Saturn V using only the 1000 most common words in English.

I have a love-hate relationship with vocabulary. I do know many, many words. I use far fewer in writing, and a tiny subset verbally if it can be helped. Frequently I cannot remember the mot juste in the mother tongue these days. Not helpful when playing my parents at Scrabble online and the only words allowed are words none of us know. It turns out there are many, many words I do not know.

I am working on a book. I have had an idea for constraining my writing. Apparently lots of other people do this sort of thing. I am including a character with a learning disability, and it occurred to me that perhaps I should limit the words I am allowed to use, either by how common they are in English or maybe by whether it could be seen to be read neatly in the context it is set in. This exercise would actually be far from simple; I would need to be certain which words and versions of words I would be allowed, structure and plan carefully and try hard to make the prose read well. For example, I stumbled across something today which made me worry that perhaps this may result in something quite wooden:

A text for students of English:                                                                      It was a bright sunny morning the week before Christmas. Grandma Burns was knitting busily. The snow was deep and its crust shone like silver. Suddenly she heard sad sighs outside her door. She opened the door and there was Peter and Jimmy Rice, two very poor little boys. Their faces were in their hands and they were crying.

The same text written for native speakers of English:

Grandma Burns sat knitting busily in the sun one bright morning the week before Christmas. The snow lay deep, and the hard crust glistened like silver. All at once she heard little sighs of grief outside her door. When she opened it there sat Peter and Jimmy Rice, two very poor little boys, with their faces in their hands; and they were crying.

I think I am going to need to play with the idea and try out some different ways of running with it. I’d love it if the book I write could be accessed by people with a simpler range of vocabulary. Vocabulary can unlock so much emotion, nuance, connection and depth. However, it also has the capacity to act as a language barrier within a language. I have worked with many young offenders and students with low academic ability and have wanted to communicate meaningfully with them without patronising them or imitating patterns of speech I can’t use honestly. (Dja get me?)

Letters from my younger self

Rarely will I find something addressed by me for me. Today I stumbled over some clumsy pencilled words of wisdom from pre-adult Lucy to my current self, on expectations of marriage soon after graduating university, climbing the ladder in civil engineering (to at least chartered engineer status by now) and starting a large family, with much advice on how I wanted to raise children. You know, in case I forgot what it was like to be a child. Honestly. I was planning my future.

This was nearly twenty years ago. I had forgotten I had written it. I don’t believe I have forgotten what it felt like to be a child. Unwittingly perhaps, I am parenting with the same family values I felt so strongly back then. Now I look ahead to the next twenty years with a more subtle wisdom of years gained. I feel the same age inside, and much younger and far more inept than the self-absorbed, arrogant, naive and frustrated seventeen year old who felt no right to opinions which wanted to burst out and be heard. I would have blogged badly. Very badly.

What did I write in 1995? A short selection might be appropriate.

“here’s a list of things I’ve noticed adults doing right: (generally speaking – mainly my parents)

  • letting kids grow up as individuals,
  • teaching kids about Jesus,
  • letting them learn through their own mistakes,
  • not influencing opinions consciously too much,
  • getting on with homework and not complaining too often [not sure what this means now],
  • buying Birthday/Christmas presents that were asked for,
  • allowing me to wear jeans, trousers and so on, without make-up,
  • gradually allowing/giving some responsibility and freedom,
  • giving in on choice of TV programmes,
  • supplying a range of educational resources at home,
  • giving n lifts to evening meetings (n tending to infinity), but not going out themselves [I was doing maths-related ‘A’ levels at the time],
  • getting up in the night to see to problems,
  • ‘family’ holidays with education built in,
  • not sending me to a private school,
  • making sure kids have musical experience”

Things I wanted to do as a parent, before I had even left school: [a partial list]

  • Be seen to be in control,
  • Spend time regularly with all [children] together and separately,
  • Not dictate what they wear, listen to, etc, and be prepared to share interests, as long as they appreciate the social effects, [?!]
  • Emphasise the marriage relationship as special,
  • Do things they want to do too, i.e. not just stately homes, refusing to go to theme parks, [perhaps a hint of bitterness?]
  • Build an atmosphere of sharing and helping each other,
  • Listen to kids reading,
  • Take an interest in what they’re doing,
  • Share responsibilities e.g. pets, food etc,
  • Appreciate that everyone is learning and not laugh at or moan about quality,
  • Encourage everyone in what they’re good at and improving in,
  • Challenge kids to learn music and do outside academic things if they are genuinely interested,
  • Do educational fun things like Lego or nature walks,
  • Not put anybody down in front of anybody else – respect and love everyone for who they are,
  • Invite friends round regularly and share stuff,
  • Don’t come up with embarrassing phrases,
  • Encourage laughter.

Well, well, well, younger me. What a funny creature you were. And still are. And how much you still have to learn. And still do. I’m not sure I have the life-experience to write so authoritatively any more, but thank you for reminding me of what I had hoped to become. You didn’t achieve half the things you thought you would, but you actually didn’t do too badly you know. Lighten up on yourself and be kind to yourself. Stop analysing, and Live. Be alive and take strength from God’s enormous Grace, not your human achievements. You are already utterly valuable, though you don’t see it. Beautiful, though you don’t want to believe it. Unique, though you currently resist it. Badly. And, as you caught yourself saying to your children this evening at tooth-brushing time: ‘you’ll pass in a crowd with a great big push’. Embrace it!

 

Scripturient…

scripturient…Possessing a violent desire to write.

There are a number of passions or desires in my heart at present. For example:

  • selling our house at the right time, for the right price;
  • buying the house that fulfils all we need it to and plenty of what we’d like it to;
  • finding a great job for my husband as we relocate and that the timings will mean we aren’t stuck for a mortgage;
  • getting a school place for Joseph for September, preferably in the village we move to;
  • getting a school place for Lily, preferably at the same school;
  • packing, decisions, legal aspects, finances;
  • this huge trust adventure, which makes all of the above seem utterly possible, in part because there is no way we can engineer it well ourselves.

Over and above all of this is my passion for relating more closely to God and the beat of his heart. He has given me a truly wonderful partner in Matthew – someone I look up to, treasure and want to support in all his great work. He has given the two of us two remarkable little ones: beautiful, sassy, creative, funny and intelligent kids who brim with vitality and have taught us all we know about how little we know.

The beat of God’s heart has taken me to serve in places abroad in the past, and back to home pastures too. It has brought me through pain to hope, over and over again. It has surprised me, made me laugh, broken my heart for the needy and hurting and given me strength when all strength seemed spent.

The beat goes on, and in this season the rhythm reminds me of my passion for written communication. For unlocking and expressing beautiful truths and making sense of things others would love to understand. The cycle of grace I wrote about in November has taken me into a place of creativity and a blossoming of ideas which I want to unpack. I will have to learn how to unpack these gifts well, so the process won’t be immediate. But I cannot ignore it. I am so excited.

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The Bishop of Bombay

I met the Bishop of Bombay today at the post office.

‘Bonjour,’ I smiled, allowing the sentence to linger Englishly beside the empty bubble-wrap envelopes. No response.

The Bishop’s wife touched his elbow and he turned around and saw me. His little eyes lit up Gallicly and his cheeks filled out. Although I always thought he looked old, today he looked much older. Deeper. Sadder.

‘M. Mercier?’ I continued. ‘You used to teach me; it’s Lucy’ I said, mixing my tenses as proficiently as ever.

He grinned and I recalled how he always used to address us in class: ‘Now, ma leetle missionarees – when ah waz ze Bishop of Bombay, let me tell you somesing – what ar you doing zere?’ He always spoke like that. He played to his strengths, with a strong warm French accent and a passion for the perfect tense with être. We played to his weaknesses – some smoked under the tables, while I got fed up with arriver and partir and spent lessons with my head in my dad’s copy of Teach Yourself Swahili. Moja, mbili, tatu, nne, tano and all that. As he got older he got louder. Everyone knew who M. Mercier was, and what his class were learning that lesson if you were on the top corridor. Our school may not have been great for sending folk to Oxbridge, but it was rich in Life.

There was one time when the Bishop of Bombay took me to the local A&E as I’d fallen in the playground – almost certainly from copying the rest of the second year girls and attempting to do gymnastics on the wooden bars outside the drama room. I asked him why he said he was the Bishop of Bombay. He actually twinkled his eyes and explained in broken English that he wasn’t really. I knew that, but I wanted more information. I said that since I’d been seven I’d wanted to be a missionary. After that he always addressed us as ‘my leetle missionarees’.

‘Aha, zee firrst female Bishop of Bombay’ he pronounced, waking up the rest of the post office. The lady hoping to check and send her passport application had been checked and sent away to collect the rest of the requisites. The Bishop’s wife moved forward to the vacant teller. She smiled at me. ‘You were always one of ze very best’ M. Mercier went on. This was clearly untrue. Even my Swahili was sketchy. But I knew what he meant. I didn’t misbehave and I tried hard. I wanted to say something to encourage him.

‘I’m married now, I have two children.’

‘Oh, zat ees good.’

He had hearing aids in. From experience with older folk I knew better than to ask someone with hearing aids if they are well, especially in public with no time to chat. So I told him I had studied more languages at university. He smiled as if he hadn’t heard me. I smiled as if he had.

And then it was time for me to move on to the next vacant teller. The Bishop and his wife both said goodbye to me and walked on, and I was left calculating the value of postage and of words. I didn’t learn much French at school, malheureusement, but I did learn about giving a much better education – that of positive words.

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mercierBishop of Bombay, circa 1993 (c) R.Spall

Video

Father I place into Your Hands

Today I discovered that I could not apply for the school places for Joseph out of county quite as readily as we had hoped. We cannot apply through Cambridgeshire if we do not live there, or have two applications open. We can apply to out of county schools through the Suffolk application website, but only if they list them. All three we preferred were not on the (extensive) list of primaries.

And having made two (count them…. two!) phone calls to numbers beginning with ‘your call is important to us’, I emailed Suffolk for advice.

It wasn’t simple: we need to apply online as we are away on the results day and may need to action Lily’s school place or house move details immediately, or make decisions about the second round applications. We are trusting that God is calling us to a specific area. We have already visited some schools and have plans to view more of the area this week. And the deadline is in 8 days.

I got an out-of-office reply stating that Suffolk were away and might take ten working days (count them… ten!) to reply. This could indeed affect our chances.

We’d already stepped out of the boat in faith. We’d already taken risks. There’s no Janus look-both-ways option here. If you try and run back to the boat you won’t stay up.

So I called on my friends, and my friends reminded me to call on Jesus. His Grace continues to cover me and carry me Outrageously. He lifts me, dries me, laughs. And 60 seconds before I’m supposed to be at school (count them… 60!) the phone rings. Withheld number. Might it be Tony, our regular wrong-number guy, calling for Peter, desperate for a visit? Or a company wishing to extol the virtues of government-encouraged schemes and am I in the 55-85 bracket? Or my sister, calling from colder climes?

Usually I ignore Withheld. Today I picked up. Today a lovely lady from Suffolk explained how she’d fixed the problem, approved of our pragmatism and was utterly professional. Their call was important to me. Thank you Marie Withheld from Suffolk. And thank you friends who remind me to face the right way when stepping out of the boat. And thank you Jesus for the outrageous grace – again.