The Journey (Ruth)

A refugee journey

(Based on the Bible book of Ruth, an ancestor of Jesus)



No rain. No rain. Still no rain.


Harvests failed. Hunger drove us out. We crossed borders looking for relief. We wanted only the simple dignity of earning a day's wage, of feeding our families. We trekked, dusty and worn.


I am Naomi. In my own language my name means joy. What irony that was to become.


Now I am weary and full of years, but at that time we were young and willing. We worked hard. We worked long hours doing the jobs they didn't want. We learned their language and customs. We made a home and a life. The day came when could arrange marriages for our sons. What a proud day. What a happy day.


Then the sickness came to our village. My husband's body, weak with hard labour, was quickly overcome. We wept deeply for our loss.


Our sons worked even harder. Their future was my hope. We kept saving for the weddings. We kept our heads high. More people died. Labour shortages. Work was harder but wages rose. Then disaster again knocked at our door. One son after the other was taken sick and died.


We were now 3 widows in one household. How could I, broken in health and heart, produce more sons to honour our promise to those two young women? I revoked their contract and gave them freedom to find new husbands. I decided to return to the land of my birth. Though little more than a beggar I needed to be among my own.


I sold what we had left to pay safe passage with a trading caravan. Well, I say safe. How safe has it ever been for women travelling alone? But it was a risk I had to take.


I said goodbye to the girls but they wouldn't let me go. Finally one agreed to return to her parents but Ruth held on to me. Stubbornly she begged me, "I will go with you. Your people will become my people, your God will become my God."


In my grey mood I said some hard things to her. I told her there would be only shame waiting for us, returning with no working men and no foreign money. But still she came. She hung on to this dried up depressed shell of a woman. She made me eat when food felt like dust in my mouth. She made me walk when all I wanted was to curl up and die too. She trusted in my God, whose very name I was cursing in my despair.


We came to the land of my ancestors. Old friends and family shook their heads when they saw me. When they greeted us I said "Don't call me Naomi, joy. My new name is Mara, bitterness. I have gone sour with grief." There was no welcome party. We had brought no honour in our homecoming.


According to the customs of my land, laid down by our God in his laws, the poor must be provided for. They harvest round field edges, grain left standing for this purpose. We call our God "The Living God" because although we have times and places for meeting him, we can't confine him to them. He hates when the weak are neglected and oppressed. He shows himself to be full of grace and compassion, slow to anger and completely reliable in his love. He gives legal rights even to women, foreigners and those in need, a rarity in my day and age.


So Ruth went to work in the field of a relative of my late husband. Being a good man, Boaz instructed his workers to leave her extra grain, to make sure she was unharmed and to give food to her. In time, in order to provide for us fully he negotiated to take her as his wife. I could give him no bridal gift but according to our laws if she marries a family member he can take over some ancestral land in my late husband's name so we brought him a blessing and our honour was restored.


Now, finally settled in her new land, Ruth gave birth to a son. More honour. I had not smiled since my loss in that distant place. I had journeyed in deep depression. When dear Ruth put the baby in my arms, at long last I laughed and sobbed all at once. I was flooded with joy and hope for the future. Our God had rescued me from distress and shame through the faithfulness of this young woman. May his name be praised.

The Bottle

The Bottle

Well, it's a team effort this week ! I said the title and the team came up with the stories. We had a fun lunch time remembering.

Let's start at the beginning. This is the story that uncorked the bottle as you could say, though they're not all bottle stories, it would be a shame to miss the others out for such a feeble reason. 

It started with a bottle of milk, which was empty. Then there was the left over pancake mix which needed somewhere to go in a hurry. The empty milk bottle was handy. It went in the door of the fridge and the problem was solved. Not. My husband fancied a quick drink of milk and put the open bottle to his mouth and glugged, and spat ! A storm of protest followed the guilty swig, and much hilarity for years to come.

Then of course they remembered Dad and daughter finding the roast chicken in the kitchen waiting to be carved and helped themselves to two tasty pieces that were lose - they found out as they bit into them that they were actually the two cloves of garlic I'd popped into the wings to flavour up a bit !

And the one daughter insisting that her sister's vitamin tablets were chewable, of course they are, here look - bite, choke, grimace ! 

And the daughter in slippers carrying a bowl of soup thinking to save herself walking round, jumping over the vacuum cleaner that was in the way, with the inevitable splosh result. 

And the baby we were minding who didn't want her bottle but the glass of water which she promptly lifted to her lips and poured all over her.

And someone boasting about how sharp the new Lagiol knives are that he had bought so he tried to cut into his Easter egg with it and woops - it couldn't cut the chocolate but we had to take him to hospital with the cut on his finger.

And the same person showing off to the girls that he could balance a plate on his elbow and they watched with interest as he did the movement with his elbow and ... the plate crashed to the floor. Impressive, huh ? They've never forgotten the trick !

Back to bottles they remembered the trick we learned to combat dog boredom - put their biscuits in a plastic bottle. It's as good as the telly watching the pooches working out how to get to their breakfast. Working their way up from getting a tongue in the neck of it to fish out the odd one, to finally playing football with it and the biscuits falling out as prizes.

We thought of two more bottle anecdotes too. 

One is adapting to the bottle of water mentality. We're British northerners through and through and can't be doing with sissy affectations. To illustrate this, think about the first ever time we came down here to visit, just after Easter, and Easter was early that year. We knew we'd be doing some walking and some canoeing. They said don't forget to bring hats. I brought hats, scarves, gloves, ... none of which turned out being much use for keeping the sun off !! Carrying your bottle of water round with you seemed to us to be the height of swank - showing off your name brand bottle, so, well, so French, well really ... We didn't know nothing about living in a warmer climate ! Wouldn't be seen dead without our bottle of water these days of course. We have to spend a lot of time in our rooms now we're invalids and the doctor says to drink a lot so the bottle of water is never far away. Tap water, mind you. I'm not paying an arm and a leg for bottled that is really just someone else's tap water ! We learned just how vital water is when during a surprise heat wave at the end of September last year one of the daughters didn't think to drink properly and got dehydration - the real deal, the confusion, weakness, the lot. We didn't spot it straight away. She forgot her meds, couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, couldn't drink. When I found her she was in a real pickle. 24 hours without her pain meds. I had to give her salt to make her drink. She picked up pretty quickly but it came home as a resounding lesson how vital water is to life and how we take it for granted that we can just go to the tap and help ourselves at will. 

The other story is one of my favourites and I still find it moving to think of it. We had to leave our inner city home here in France, with all it's different nationalities and bustling life. Always something happening somewhere. So many languages and cultures around us we were in our own human kaleidascope. When we moved to a job in a youth activity centre in rural France I got culture shock. This wasn't exotic and fascinating, this was all that raised my hackles, my deep prejudices that I didn't even know that I had (me prejudiced ? Never !). I didn't live in a big city as a child but I found out I didn't like small town life. Everyone knew each other since the nursery and I felt very excluded. It was quite a lonely time for me. I didn't like their cheese, I wanted a decent Cheddar or Stilton. I didn't drink much, we associated it with so many problems and suffering in the city that it didn't seem worth bothering about, so had no appreciation for the local wine. Not enough rain means the trees are mainly evergreen and dusty and dry in the summer. The houses in the town were stone and seemed to me to be so ugly and uncomfortable compared to the red brick I was used to. Gardens hidden away in courtyards, sun beating off the bare streets. I'd never had holidays in the sun, the beaches on the East coast of England were fine for me.  "So Bracing", dear old Skeggy, Skegness, and Norfolk facing the north sea, and sometimes the wind straight from the North Pole !

We became part of a thriving little church and came to enjoy our time with them. They had a Sunday lunch together, everyone bring something. I'd come to dread these. In the north of France someone had actually said to me :"The English can't cook" and it seemed true, my bowl of rice salad would be left still full surrounded by empty bowls at the end of the "do" and I'd end up having to carry the thing away - everyone being able to spot that it was me who had done the dull one that no one wanted. What do french women do to their rice to make it interesting ? Everything I tried failed. Couscous, pasta, same result. Anyway, to cut this pity party short I went to our first Agape meal together with mixed feelings. I duly slipped my bowl among the others when I thought no one was looking and went to sit at the table. 

Eventually it all went quiet and the pastor got up to say grace. He picked up the basket that was in front of him, same as was stationed at intervals all down the table, as it is in any French home at virtually any meal. He gave thanks, broke the bread and passed it round, each passing it to his neighbour in the familiar memorial act. Then he took the bottle of red wine (local Côtes de Rhone) as was stationed at intervals all down the table, as it is in any French home at virtually any meal. He prayed, poured out a glass which was then passed round too. Whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup do it in remembrance of me. When ever. Perhaps Jesus was talking about their equivalent of Christmas dinner, the Passover. Perhaps he was talking about every meal - bread being their staple and diluted wine the only safe way of drinking water. Which ever it was, these simple things to be found on French tables which had seemed so alien, were speaking so clearly of something very familiar and dear to me.

I'm in a different situation now. Housebound with a disabling illness, my 2 adult daughters and I can't "go to church". We have to be "church". Maybe you'll think me irreverent, I'm sorry if this shocks you. Sometimes I'll pick up a piece of bread and as I break it and eat I think of my brothers and sisters all over the world who are part of the same body of Christ, and I'll remember the gift Jesus gave of his body, broken for me and I feel very grateful in my heart. Then I'll take the glass of grape juice or occasionally a red wine, and remember that Jesus gave his blood as a ransom so that I could know freedom. Not a freedom tied by where you can travel and what you can do. I can't anymore. My travel plans are currently grounded. But I can know true freedom, I can live it even here with no restrictions. I can live in the fullness and joy of his resurrection. That bottle is not the one that makes you forget, but the one to help us remember.

Concretewords : 'The Dress'

St David's Day, 1993. Begin Hill School, Llanelli

The dress : 


Happy St David's day, well, sort of. This photo, 20 years old to the day, tells the story.

We left Grimsby in September 1992  to join World Horizons, a christian mission organisation based in Llanelli preparatory to joining their outreach base in the inner city in Northern France 6 months later. We'd already left our jobs as teacher and social worker 2 years previously for a 5 month training programme with YWAM on the Mercy Ship, The Anastasis. What an adventure, more about that another time. Back in Grimsby we got supply jobs until joining WH.

I liked living in Wales. I joined a choir. They weren't too keen on having such a short stay member so I had to sight read like mad to make sure I could keep up to justify my presence. I had to be able to say I sang in a Welsh choir! My looks felt at home too. My father is Liverpool Welsh. My granddad Jones sang in the Liverpool Welsh Male Voice Choir. Now hows that for a name drop :-) 

Finding somewhere to stay was an adventure. On a trip to France we met someone who had been to Llanelli on a visit and had met a blind lady who wanted to go to a blind children's school in the jungle in Zimbabwe for a few months to teach braille but couldn't go because she had no one to care for her cat and dog while she was away. To cut a long and highly unlikely story short we ended up living in her one bedroom bungalow while she was away. The lack of space inside was made up for by the view from the picture window out over The Gower, the fun of having a dog despite being a family on the move, and the distinct advantage of moving from a house where you had to plug the vac in in every room to one where I could plug it in in the middle and reach all the edges.

The 1st March 1993 was our last full day in Llanelli, the girls' last day at school there. Already sad to have to say goodbye to her friends our younger daughter did not want to have to get dressed up as well, but all the other children were already in costume and mum being there with camera at the ready it was an obligatory rite of passage. We had to give the dress back at the end of the day, but I still have my homemade felt daffodil brooch I bought and wore proudly on the 1st March for several years after.

The Thursday, 2nd March we loaded up the car, all 4 went to prayer day, were "prayed out" together, left like the Von Trapp family, got in the car, picked up a few last things and drove out of Wales, stopping off in Cardiff to have lunch with relatives. We over-nighted in London, drove onto the ferry first thing in the morning on the 3rd and arrived at our new home in the North of France, 7 flights up, 8 different nationalities in our stairway. Our furniture arrived in a lorry the next day. On Monday morning we settled the girls in their new school then went into Lille on the Mongy tramway to queue up at the Bureau d'Etrangers to start the process for getting a Carte de Sejour residency permit.

2 weeks later we were at a conference in Paris. We slept on a church hall floor and looked for free things to do and see. I will never forget walking along the banks of the Seine, the children skipping and singing Happy Birthday to you in English with their Grimsby accents, Welsh and French with no English accent and wondering if I was dreaming !

A thought, concretewords : 'The Instrument'

The instrument


I remember it well, 40 years ago and more. Sandals, short socks, shorts, long thin legs. Thick brown hair in a pony tail. The annual ritual as soon as we arrive. Jumping out of the car. Running to promenade to look. Little brother trailing behind shouting because he can't keep up and I won't wait. 

It's not there yet. Oh.

Trekking back up the cliff to our holiday flat. Running down again. Traipsing back up. Running down. Dancing back. The poster has gone up at last. They're here ! 

Each summer my family went to Cromer, a decaying English seaside town. I didn't understand that the paint was peeling till I was older. We loved the place like you love your pet, regardless. My Dad played tennis and we went to the CSSM. 

All weathers, I was there.  Damp from the sand seeping through the seat of my slacks. North Sea wind down the neck of my anorak. I never cared. I was enthralled. I loved every single minute. From the Bible study groups in the morning, to the Beach Special service and games in the afternoon I drank it all in. Always last to leave. Often too timid to chat, but unable to tear myself away.  

I didn't go to Sunday School. Well, my friend Wendy had invited me to hers in the parish church, but my Mum and Dad didn't go there so I thought I wouldn't be allowed. I made up for it one marvelous week each year on the beach. I loved the songs. I wrote down the words in a notebook when I got home. 

"Wide, wide as the ocean, high as the heavens above, 
Deep, deep as the deepest sea is my saviour's love."

I dreamed, well no, I was too shy, I hardly dared even dream it, but in my heart of hearts I longed to be with those musicians strumming away so everyone could join in. It was nearly an ache.

*****

For my 14th birthday I asked for a guitar.

I sat on the edge of my bed for hours on end trying and trying the chords in the manual till my fingers gradually gained the leather hard tips which make the strings bite less.

"I, though so unworthy,
Still am a child of his care"

The next year on holiday I took my guitar and my book of choruses...

... and said nothing.

And the following year. And the next.

What went on in that intervening time is another story which I hope I will get to tell you one day. Suffice it to say I met with Jesus in a new way and finally joined the team. I saw God at work, made friends, learned things, had fun, met kids, and even met my husband. And I got my heart's desire. Year after year battling north east wind, sea gulls, high tide, tractors, bin lorries, helicopter, come rain and shine I accompanied the songs. Every guitar I had finished up with sand in it. Of course then I couldn't just stop at beach missions !

All told I led worship for nearly 30 years in many ways, in many places. Never wearied of it.

*****

Nowadays the guitar is stowed away. It's been there for nearly 10 years. I struggle to hold the strings down. I've more or less lost my voice. The song books are lined up on the bookshelf, yellowed and worn. Songs left half written, untried, in the file.

But the deep urge burns on. It had got under my skin before I was even aware of what worship was. 8 year old, 9 year old, 10, 11, 12, praying along with the special prayer, year after year. No follow up, no teaching, no understanding. Not yet. Just a gut certainty. And even now it goes on. A smouldering passion. Full of questions yet as certain as it ever has been. 

Not withered by age or crushed by life.
Bigger than the instruments. 
Broader than the songs. 
Deeper than the services

It keeps my heart beating. 
It keeps me marching. 
It keeps me praising God regardless of what's going on. 

"For His word teaches me
That his love reaches me
EVERYWHERE"

*****

PS  I wrote this comment on someone's blog and felt like adding it here :-

"I would have thought it trite to say this in the past, but it really is about worshiping God in the end. You may not be able to play the flute but you’re carrying on giving praise to God with your blog – I’m sure it’s in the psalms – “praise him on the trumpet the psaltery and blog”. Me too. Whether I can ever play my instrument again or not I’m not going to let it stop me praising Jesus."

*****
 
Have guitar, will travel

Indoors, outdoors, church, Town Hall, 
Nightclub, school and shopping mall. 
Mid Atlantic, mountain peak, 
Forest glade, car park, beach.

Solo voice or with a band,
Every Sunday, one night stand.
For a thousand, for a few, 
New plastic chairs, old wooden pew.

Praise the Lord ! and Glory Be !
Simple awestruck bended knee.
Any method, any time, 
Any place and any rhyme.

Thank you Jesus, I'm so glad,
Thank you for the fun I've had,
Thank you for the joy and tears,
You've been faithful all these years. 

(Have had such fun writing this ditty. Thinking of so many memories. Even the hard ones, God worked anyway.)

A story : 'Help'

'Help'

Wild briars whipped at his legs, but Dimitri didn't notice. Eyes fixed on the road he scrambled into his hidden look-out point. He'd heard the news. His cousin had rushed up to tell his father. There'd been a riot. That would mean new prisoners. 

Dimitri lived with his parents and his brothers and sisters in a little house next to the jail. Jailer was a poorly paid and little respected job. His father often spoke of getting another job. Well he talked about it. Dimitri didn't know what the jail looked like inside.  He'd looked in once but ran away sick with the smell and the noise.

They were coming up the hillside out of town. The Guard, only two prisoners, and the usual curious crowd. Dimitri ducked as he saw his father anxiously came out to meet them. He was always living on his nerves, terrified in-case a prisoner escaped, then he would be executed. Dimitri had learned to duck quickly if his father lashed out when he was like that. He'd have to keep the little ones quiet at supper.

That night Dimitri was restless. He had slept but something had woken him. It was the quiet. There was no shouting or moaning in the cells next-door. Just the sound of singing. It sent shivers up his spine.

Dimitri stood in the rubble that had been his house. The babies were crying. Everyone was shouting. His mother was desperately counting children. His father was oblivious of them all. He was shrieking and waving a knife. Dimitri stared his eyes wide, less worried about the earth quake than by the hysterical behaviour of his father. He'd never seen him this bad before. His father was going to kill himself. Dimitri tried to make his legs move but he was rooted to the spot.

Then a voice called out clearly amongst the debris that had been the jail.

"Don't harm your self, we're all here."

The Jailer called for called for lights and rushed in and fell trembling before Paul and Silas. The prisoners were walking around, their chains had fallen off them.

"What must I do to be saved?"

They replied : "Believe in the Lord Jesus and you will be saved - you and your household."

We don't know what became of Dimitri and his brothers and sisters. We don't even know his real name. The last we hear is that the jailer at Philippi washed and fed his prisoners, they were all baptised and "the whole family was filled with joy, because they had come to believe in God."

Many children have lived in de-humanising poverty, witnessed trauma, or their parents in distress. The love of God is for whole families. If you identified with that child, but didn't have the help you needed at the time, I believe it's never too late to experience the healing hand of Jesus so that we can avoid passing on our chaos to a further generation.

From Acts chapter 16

Story : "Over-heard"

Over-heard

Clay : "Oo ! Oy ! Ow ! Wad you doi'g ?"

Potter :"Kneading."

Clay : "Where'd by sboud?"

Potter :"You're going to have a lip instead."

Clay : "Bud I'b a dea bod."

Potter :"A dea bod?"

Clay : "Yed, bouri'g dea indo gubs 'n bugs."

Potter :"You're not going to be a tea pot any more. You're going to be a vase."

Clay : "Bud I wadda be dike de odders 'n derve."

Potter :"You'll still serve but differently. You'll hold flowers and cheer people up. We'll put roses in you."

Clay : "Roded. ... hm... Grydadububs?"

Potter :"Yes."

Clay : "Bink ? Ded ? Gurble?"

Potter :"I don't think they come in that colour."

I may see myself as disabled. I may miss what I used to do. But God has the right to mould me to use me to serve in new ways where I'm not handicapped at all.

Liz Figures from Isaiah ch

The Stink

The Stink

This was going to be the smelliest ever of smells.

Dennis the Menace and his faithful mutt, Gnasher, crouched down behind the shed. Dennis gingerly opened his sports bag. It held every single bottle of his Mum's perfumes. He took out a pair of slippers and started to pour the perfume onto them. 

"We're going to put the biggest smell in the world onto Dad's slippers " he said to Gnasher, "then we'll be able to whiff whenever he's coming and run away. Hee hee !"

"Gneee ! Gnash ! " replied Gnasher. 

Little did our mischievous friend realise - the drips he was getting on himself were going to tell his Dad exactly what was going on !!

In the ancient song Psalm 133 it says : "How good and how pleasant it is when brothers dwell together in unity. It's like the precious oil poured on Aaron's head, running down his beard and onto his garment." Aaron would never forget the day of his commissioning as a priest. You can hear one of his sons watching the ceremony saying in his head as he sees the oil dripping - 

"Me' Mam'll kill 'im. It wont come out in the wash." 

Every time he put on his priestly robes the oil stain would still be giving off it's powerful fragrance.

What marks us out ? Do we have the fragrance of Christ ? "By this shall all men know that you are my disciples - if you have love for one another." Is it noticeable that we are followers of Jesus by our acts of kindness and thoughtfulness?

from Psalm 133 and John ...

A story : "Friends Reunited"

The Reunion

The traveller pulled his cloak more tightly round him. The chill morning mist was lifting. They'd be landing soon.

Stepping swiftly down the gang-plank. Dodging the waving arms selling carpets, bread, scarves, fruit. Picking out a lad to carry his modest luggage and to show the way. Walking briskly through the town, the rich fragrances, the odour of spiced stews, the smell of too many donkeys and too many people in too little space. Entering a courtyard. The boy took his coin and left.

The Master was with a customer. With a flurry of unfamiliar courtesy the stranger was seated and brought hot sweet tea. He sipped his drink and brushed away any last minute doubts about what he had come to do.

Paul bid farewell to his customer. He turned and with a cry of delight recognised his old friend Barnabus ...

All those years of setting up his business. Years of stability. Did he want to give it up to go back on the road, back to the mission? Did he want to give up well earned comfort and a successful business to get back in harness, face so many new challenges,  found and train excitable new churches, the good news to be brought through thick and thin? 

And who of us with maturing years will step up to new marks, bring the experience of years to join with the enthusiasm of pioneering the new ...