Until a couple of weeks ago, I never knew the disgusting nature of mothballs.  I remember reading about them in quaint, nostalgic books as a child and so I unknowingly tossed them into the bags of winter clothes that we stored in the loft over the summer. I don’t mind being a bit old-fashioned from time to time.

When we got the clothes down, however, I nearly gagged.  I nearly couldn’t bear the job of washing everything and hanging it out to dry – hoping the fresh air would take the edge off of the horrible smell.  Next year, frankly, the baby moths are welcome to our clothes.

I’ve been thinking about those mothballs a lot, even when I don’t smell them.  I’ve been feeling that maybe God has something to say to me about the way that I sometimes store my faith away in mothballs, out of sight and out of use.

Jesus told a story about a man who went on a trip and left 3 servants in charge of his wealth.  Two of them invested the money and so earned more for their master (good), one of them dug a hole and hid the money in the ground (bad).  The master wasn’t pleased with servant number three even though his money was kept perfectly safe.  I guess that wasn’t the point. The third servant hid the money because he was afraid.  If the other guys got good returns, risk must have been a part of their investment.  Risky; good.  Playing it safe; bad.

Fear stops us doing lots of things.  It stops us from becoming all that we can be and keeps us from giving all that we give.  Other parts of the Bible seem to say that the way to have less fear, is to step out, the way to have more love is to begin loving, the way to have more faith, is to put in to action the faith that we have, no matter how small it is.

I don’t want my love, my faith, my gifts smelling of mothballs.

This last summer I’ve been thinking a lot about fluff.

It all started at bedtime one evening.  I was reading a story to our youngest, when all of a sudden I noticed that some airborne seedpods had come in through the window.  When we looked out, we noticed a thin cloud of them blowing past the front of our house.  Obviously the dry, warm conditions were just right for whatever kind of tree or plant had just released them.

Over the summer, I thought a lot about the seedpod fluff we’d seen and it seemed to say something to me about the fact that God is working in unseen ways all around us and that it is only maybe a fraction of the time that we see the evidence of what God has been up to.

But that wasn’t the end of the fluff.  Granted it has been a record-breakingly warm and dry summer in the UK but I seemed to run into fluff everywhere I went.  Every time I did, be it at the seaside or in the Derbyshire Peaks, I offered to God to be as much like a wind-blown ball of mini parachutes as I could.  Going wherever I was blown.  Being as life-giving as I could.

Someone pointed out to me, however, that the whole design of seedpod fluff is that it is able to be blown randomly and end up in all sorts of places.  It’s not like planting beans in a straight line.  The whole beauty of fluff is its randomness.  Maybe it’s not meant to be blown anywhere particular.  Or maybe it’s just meant to end up in as many places as possible.

Towards the end of the summer, we were at the park and I was surprised to notice the entire grass field was full of low growing dandelion fluff. This spoke to me of being a blessing where I am.  Not looking for a good breeze to blow me somewhere else, necessarily, but being as loving and generous as I can be where ever I am.

You’ll probably be able to guess what an unenthusiastic cleaner I am, but I recently found a little seedpod of fluff in the corner of the kitchen.  Let that be a sign to me of making every little thing that I do, holy.  Even washing the floor.

Have you ever tried to give away ice cream?  A few days ago the boys and I spent part of a day in a park in the other side of town.  As we got more and more hot, we decided to walk to a nearby shop and pick up something to cool us down.  This isn’t as simple as it might seem.

I don’t know about where you live, but in the UK, if you want to buy a box of ice lollies (popsicles) or ice creams you are struck with a bit of a conundrum.  Not only are you confronted by a vast array of choice but they all come in boxes of differing quantities.  So, even if you are able to come to a decision about a type of ice lolly that everyone in your party would like, you might then discover that it comes in a box of 8 or 6 or 5 or 4 or 3.

If we’ve found ourselves in these circumstances in the past, we have tried to give away any extras. (What else can you do?) This time, however, we decided to do it on purpose.  The boys finally decided on Cadbury Buttons ice cream cones, which come in a box of 5.  They ate 2 so we had 3 to give away. 

As we walked back to the park, we decided that we’d offer them to anyone we met, but not to children on their own (we didn’t want to get arrested).  A woman of retirement age passed us and we offered her one.  She was very nice about it, but didn’t want one because she was going out to dinner with friends.  We happened to see someone we knew.  She just laughed and shook her head.  One man walked past us as if he hadn’t heard us.  (We were pretty sure he did.)

We went back into the park over to the basketball court where two 20ish year olds were looking very hot and sweaty.  They and their friend gratefully took all three ice cream cones.  They didn’t even seem to act as if it was weird.

Now we’ll need to do more field trials before we can come to any conclusive discoveries based on this research.  But based on this experience alone, something is quite obvious:  the people who felt the hottest were the people who accepted the ice cream.

I’ve been thinking about a story that Jesus told about giving things away.  He told this story to people who thought that they were in God’s good books to show that they might be surprised to discover who actually accepts the invitation to come to God’s party.  In the story, a man invites people to come to a banquet but they are full of excuses as to why they can’t come.  So he decides to find the people who are actually hungry, and these turn out to be the people who are living on the streets or who are too poor or infirm to normally get invitations.  They know a good thing when they see it and they come to the party.

What about us?  Are we hungry enough for God to accept the invitation to the party?  We fill our lives with lots and lots of things to distract us from this core longing.  Is there a chance that we could put them down just for a moment and be open-handed enough to accept God’s free ice cream?

About once a month I meet up with someone to talk about my soul. That might sound odd, or pointless or scary (and it might be at times) but it also helps me to pay attention to what is going on beneath the surface of my life.

Take, for example, the last time. Beth asked if I’d mind imagining myself in a Bible story. I was up for this. So I closed my eyes and tried to slow myself down and be as present as I could be in the room. The Bible story was familiar (Luke 5), but, because I was really paying attention and trying to put myself in the scene, I saw things in it that I had never noticed before.

…So, I am standing on the shore of a big lake, surrounded by rolling hills. The sun is shining. I am quite near to Jesus, who is getting a bit crowded by the people who are trying to get near him to hear what he’s saying. In a surprise move, he asks a nearby fisherman (the one person there who is too busy to be paying much attention to Jesus) if he can get in his boat.

I feel a bit relieved for Jesus to be getting away from all those people. But he doesn’t go far. In fact he gets the fisherman to row him only a little way out and he continues to speak to the people, his voice carrying over the water, like a first century microphone. The fisherman can’t do much except listen to what Jesus is saying and look curiously back at the crowds.

Then Jesus asks the fisherman to row out to deep water. You can almost hear the sigh in the fisherman’s answer. What? I’ve been out there all night and I’d only just finished sorting out my nets when you asked me to take you out in this boat, for heaven’s sake.

But something about what he’s observed and heard makes the fisherman go along with it. And they throw over the nets and get the catch of a lifetime. He’s shouting and laughing and crying and it’s so loud that we can all hear it on the shore. It’s so much that he can’t cope with it all and he has to get some of the other guys to row out and help with the load.

The fisherman gets a bit overwhelmed at this point. Don’t come near me, Jesus, I’m not worth all of this, he says. He feels how he is the focus of all that blessing and it makes him uncomfortable.

There’s no reason to be afraid, says Jesus.

That was your best work day ever, says Jesus, when they get in to shore, but I’ve got better things in store for you. And he does.

Here’s what I saw in that story that I didn’t see before. There are loads of people around but Jesus takes particular interest in one. And he isn’t the most obvious one. Also, Jesus leads him by tiny little steps. First he asks the fisherman for a favour. Then he gets him to look at all the people from his perspective for a bit. Only then does he suggest the deep water and all the blessing that brings. After that overwhelming experience, the fisherman is ready is ready for the whole adventure.

So am I.

I was visiting a church recently where someone said ‘Be happy! God wants us to be happy’.

I think I know what the person meant but I guess that statement felt a little bit artificial to me, like putting on a fake smile for a camera or spraying around some furniture polish so that the house will seem to be cleaner than it is.  (Of course I would never do anything like that.)  Surely God just wants me to be me.  God likes it when I’m happy but is fine with me feeling a little tired or angry or blue too.

I want my own children to be happy, but, even if I could, I wouldn’t wish unconditional happiness on them, unrelated to the circumstances of their lives.   I want them to feel a little bit sad if they are saying goodbye to a good friend.  I want them to feel angry about the injustices of the world (but not about losing electronic football matches). I want them to be bouncing up and down with true joy as often as possible.  But if they were always happy, they wouldn’t really be living or, for that matter, really loving.

I was privileged to get to sit in on a Year 11 end of year assembly recently.  (American friends, this is a bit like a graduation but just for the students and much less formal, without gowns or pointless hats.)  Part of the presentation was a slide show of that group of students’ history in the school.  Not surprisingly, they found this hilarious.  Every photo, showing slightly shorter and more innocent-looking versions of themselves made them laugh their heads off.

To an outside observer, however, they didn’t look all that different.  I know an awful lot happens between the ages of 11 and 16, but they were recognizably themselves.

God has loved us and rejoiced in our happiness throughout all of the stages of our lives and has also been there when we’ve been struggling or sad.  This is my favourite phrase from the baptism service used at our church: ‘ …all this for you, before you could know anything of it’.

Although it might sound strange, wishing someone always to be happy might not be the most loving thing.  Happy is good, but if you’re happy during an earthquake, you’re not very clever.  If you’re happy when a friend is crying, you’re a bit calloused.

Instead, maybe what we really want is the underlying joy and the confidence that we are truly loved, that will take us through life’s highs and lows and will keep us bouncing back. Yes, God wants us to be happy, but also to love.  And God knows that costs.

I’ve been trying to make the hobbit, Bilbo Baggins, out of papier mache for the last couple of weeks. ‘Why?’ you might ask. It’s a question I have pondered myself many times. Our village has a scarecrow festival each year and I’ve somehow convinced myself that it would be good to join in. http://www.haxbyandwiggintonmethodistchurch.org.uk/scarecrows/

What has struck me during the hours that I have devoted myself to this task is that the cardboard and lumps of soggy newspaper around me have always been Bilbo. No one else would have recognized the mess on the kitchen table, but I’ve known all along that it was him. As I’ve painted his face and put on the finishing touches, I’m still not sure if anyone else will be able to say who it is. But I do. He’s Bilbo. He’s mine.

We all know that names are important. Think of the hours that prospective parents spend on this choice, the way meanings are carefully considered, as well as family histories.

There’s a story in the Bible that I haven’t really thought about since I was a child. It’s the story of Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego. (What about those names?) What I’d never paid attention to before is that those aren’t their real names, not what they were called when they were babies in Judah. Before they were captured and taken away into exile in Babylon (because they were handsome, clever and charming – that’s what it says, honest) they were known as Hananiah, Mishael and Azariah.

The meanings of the new names they’re given in captivity have to do with Babylonian culture and religion and nothing to do with who they really are. If you remember this story, you’ll know that eventually they refuse to bow down to worship a statue. Quite bold for people in their position. They also say to the king, ‘Our God can save us but even if he doesn’t, there is no way that we are going to deny who we really are.’

He has them thrown in a massive fire pit.

As I imagined this story recently, I realised that in the fire, their true natures and their true names are revealed. This is what their names mean: Hananiah, the Lord shows grace; Mishael, who is what God is; and Azariah, the Lord helps. Living in exile in a foreign land, even about to be tortured to death, they are truly who God has created them to be. And although three people were thrown in the pit, the king mysteriously spots four people walking around, unharmed. He has them brought out and they don’t even smell of smoke.

To me, that is purity of heart. Being true to what God has made us to be. What is your real name?

I had a spiritual moment as I stood waiting with other people for a bus this morning in the rain. Bus stops don’t normally provide my most inspirational thoughts but I was struck this morning with just what a diverse group we were, as we waited there. A mixture of ages, genders, races; there were several people smoking and one person obviously trying to quit – puffing on an electronic cigarette – and a very friendly Goth. But we were all at the mercy of the unpredictable Number 1 bus.
I started thinking about a story in the Bible where someone is waiting. In John chapter 5, a man who has been an invalid for 38 years is waiting by a pool with supposed healing properties. He is watching the water with the belief that if it ripples, the Spirit of God is at work and the first person who gets in will be healed. I imagine that if you have to be the first one in for this to work, he is watching the water very carefully.
This takes place in a building surrounded by columns, making lots of doorways, but the man isn’t looking for God to come through one of those. Instead, he’s staring at the water, at a place where tradition tells him God might be found.
So Jesus comes to a traditional place of healing, but goes about healing the man in his usual rule-breaking way. He comes through the unexpected entrance, heals on the wrong day and says things that annoy the religious people.
So apart from the waiting, what does this have to do with the bus stop? I guess I was thinking as we all craned our necks to look down the road to see if the late bus was finally rounding the bend, that I can be a bit like that with God. I expect God to turn up in particular ways when God might be standing right next to me or perhaps dropping down a ladder from a helicopter in the sky. (Funny what you fantasize about when your bus is late.)
With Easter just round the corner, maybe it is good for me to remember this surprising Jesus who comes through the doorway when we’re not looking, through one of the porticos by this pool or out of the entrance of the tomb or into the door of our hearts.

The scullery.  That was my favourite place.  For those who aren’t sure, a scullery is ‘a small room for washing and storing dishes and utensils and doing other kitchen chores’.  No, it wasn’t because of my recent attempt to catch up with the rest of the world and start watching Downton Abbey.  And no, I’m usually not particularly fond of washing up.

I’d recently done some reflective prayer which suggested imagining yourself in your favourite place and then asking to meet God there.  I don’t always get something out of that kind of thing, but on this occasion, I did.  The scullery in question was in a big Tudor house where I lived as part of an international and interdenominational Christian community in my early 20s. 

Around the tiled walls of this room were shelves for storing pots, cutlery and containers, a large fridge, two sinks, an old-fashioned, industrial-sized steamer and a large kettle.  Tea towels hung drying on racks from the high ceiling.  In the centre of the room was a square faded yellow Formica table surrounded by wooden stools.  When no one else was around, this was a very peaceful place to sit and have a cup of tea.  But this was not when it was at its best.

The scullery came into its own when it was a hub of community activity  – like chatting with others as we peeled and chopped windfall apples around the yellow table.  Carrying on the lunchtime conversation as we did the washing up; two washing, several drying and everyone else putting away.  Cups of tea or coffee as we came in to take a break from our work in the morning or afternoon.  Why meet God here of all places, instead of in the beautiful church or the expansive gardens?

What I felt in my prayer time was that God was like the yellow table in the scullery.  A place where this new family gathers and gets all the bread that it needs for the journey ahead.  The centre of our common task and purpose but also a place of joy and celebration and rest.  A place where we receive affirmation in our difference and the words that we most need to hear in order to grow.

My husband is worried that I’m painting too rosy a picture of what happens on the prayer stair.  Just to set the record straight, there is often a lot of jostling (sometimes fighting) about who sits where before we even start.  Sometimes at least one of us is in a bad mood.  If there is a quiet moment, it isn’t uncommon for someone to say something in a really low voice or in an accent (or both) and make us all crack up.  Any prayer that might occur happens in that context.  Now you know.

I quite like the fresh start of January.  There’s a twinge of sadness that it’s all over when we take down the Christmas tree and decorations, but if I’m honest, I prefer things a bit more bare and after all the indulgence, I feel ready to go out and do something even if it’s ordinary.

On the prayer stair we’ve been using our Christmas cards to pray for the people who sent them to us and that’s been a nice way to hang on to a bit of Christmas.  The boys really seem to like this.  They actually like praying for other people.  As we become adults does this become less instinctive and take more effort?  Or do we confuse our prayers with too much thought about what we ought to be praying for?  A child’s prayer would sound a bit like this:  ‘Thank you God for my friend, X.   He’s really good at football.  Help him to get even better and to have a good time at school.  Amen.’   Done. 

I think when I start to pray for my friends, my thoughts very quickly turn to all the complications and nuances in the situation almost as if I am the one answering the prayer as I offer it.    It seems to me that this kind of praying is tight-fisted and holding-on rather than an open-handed offering.  What if I could pray like a 6 year old?  ‘Lord, I really like my friend, Kenon.  She’s amazing.  Please bless her today.’

Admitting that I don’t know the answers doesn’t mean that I am excusing myself of the possibility of being involved in the answer to someone else’s need.  But hands are significant here.  If I pray with my hands open, I am in a position that shows I am holding my friend before God, waiting for God’s love and wisdom to do more for them than I ever could.  At the same time, my hands are open, waiting for whatever part of that work God wants to share with me.