Tag Archives: hope

Not exactly what we’d planned

Posted on by
5

How do you deal with disappointments? I’ve been asking myself that question over the past few days. Sometimes things just don’t work out how we’d planned or hoped and it can be a hard pill to swallow…

I’d been looking forward to this Christmas for some months. The whole family was excited to be coming together to celebrate this special time in our own home, where we had just moved to a couple of months earlier. It had felt a long time coming, after Christmas family gatherings ruined by Covid and subsequently re arranging the following year. I was so happy to be welcoming our growing family of children, partners and grandchildren It would be the first time for these little ones to have Christmas at our house and their 95-year-old great grandmother was also joining us.

A few days before the arrivals were due, we’d bought the tree, decorated the house and hosted a pre-Christmas meal for some new local friends. We were in the seasonal mood and looking forward to the week ahead.

The first sign of trouble came in the form of a simple text from our neighbours asking if we had water, as they had lost theirs. Within 24 hours we had no running water and a stack of water bottles had been delivered by South West Water. That day as I stood in the kitchen attempting to wash my hands and clean the sink with a bottle of water, I began to wonder how this was going to work … Christmas dinner for nine adults and three children…was it even possible with no running water?

After lots of phone calls and the failure of the water company to fix all the leaks and reconnect us to the mains, a mini tank of water was eventually delivered to our drive – toilets could now be flushed and showers used sparingly. Christmas wasn’t cancelled, although it wasn’t going to be quite as relaxed as we’d hoped.

As the family arrived in stages and Christmas Eve approached the next seasonal “missile” hit us, when one of the family went down with a bug, followed by another and another… From Christmas Eve to beyond Boxing Day, there was always someone absent, struck down and not eating, while others were in recovery!

However, Christmas 2022 did happen in our house. Santa paid a visit and stockings were opened amid sighs and squeals of delight. Everyone was together, most of the time. We served up delicious meals, for some. At least one or two games were played and a few Christmas films watched beside the fire.

As the first branch of the family attempted to depart, they discovered their car steering had given up. And so the final straw this Christmas came in the form of a breakdown relay truck that transported our son, daughter-in-law and their 15 month old son back to London. Thankfully the youngest member was thrilled about a ride in a truck, even if his parents were less sure!

We all know things don’t always work out how we’d hoped and the danger of looking forward to something so much, is that we can be left feeling disappointed when things don’t live up to our expectations. So, do we look for someone to blame? Do we try to find a positive and be thankful for what we have in comparison to so many others? Maybe easier said than done!

One of the family muttered the essence of this verse during the unfolding daily dramas.. “suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope..”

As I swallow down my disappointment and the visible sadness of the rest of the family, I’m trying to remain hopeful for happier family gatherings in the future, because I’ve certainly been enduring something!

On the positive side, there were no arguments or fall outs – we were too busy fighting sickness and refilling water tanks!

A tasteless Christmas?

Posted on by
2

However isolated I may feel, I am one of more than 10 million people in the UK who have tested positive… so I am not alone!

I suppose it was almost bound to happen at some point and on the plus side I am getting it out of the way before Christmas. I am also feeling thankful that I’ve picked it up after having two vaccines and the symptoms have not been much worse than a bad cold. Only one thing took me by surprise – the complete loss of taste and smell which descended after a few days. It seems that was my early Christmas gift from Covid-19.

A bit like running water or flushing toilets, our senses are something we can take for granted while they’re working fine. Overnight the world became a different place and so many wonderful smells that fired the imagination or stimulated the taste buds had vanished. A cup of tea tasted more like dishwater and the roast ham being carved in the kitchen, might as well have been dolls house food. I’ve never experienced such a complete loss of taste and smell, and it was devastating.

What is the point of preparing a meal, when you can’t look forward to the taste driven by the delicious scents from herbs and spices? The only sensation in each meal was that textures varied, but everything tasted pretty much like cardboard. Flavours had become a distant memory, which I was desperate to rediscover.

I hadn’t realised how much my own well-being was influenced by food and how much sitting down to a lovely meal could affect my mood. When the food on your plate might as well be straw, what’s the point of cooking or eating? It just becomes about getting energy into your body and allaying the empty feeling in your stomach. 

I hoped it wouldn’t last long, but two or three days in I found myself inhaling fresh coffee in the hope of catching a whiff of something… However, it smelt just the same as the sleeve of my jumper. The only plus side was that bad smells had also disappeared – but that meant sniffing the milk to see if it was still OK didn’t work anymore.

A week in and there was a tantalising glimpse of hope, when I cut a slice of lemon and tasted the sharp tang – a flavour at last! Gradually little hints of scent are developing and with it the faintest flavours are being rediscovered. 

This afternoon I stuffed my face against the branches of the Christmas tree and dreamed of piney aromas. Was there a hint of pinecones somewhere, or is that just my imagination?

It looks like Christmas now – the tree is glittering with lights – but I can’t smell it yet! 

However, I live in hope that by Christmas Day I may be able to smell those mouth-watering dishes and the scent of fresh pine will be more than a distant memory!

time for a new diary

Posted on by
Reply

In true Bridget Jones spirit I bought a new diary the other week. 

I love diaries. I love filling out the details on the first page and putting in all the family birthdays and special events to come (not that I always remember them!). Before the year starts I like flicking through the clean pages with room for notes against each month. My last two diaries have been particularly brilliant as they even have tear out pages for shopping lists or other vital notes.

Even though I have a digital calendar on my phone, I still love my physical diary with pages. It’s a bit like reading a book, as opposed to articles online. There are some things we never tire of.

A few years ago, finding good diaries for my communications team was a bit of a ritual. When the catalogue for ordering the very corporate plain black or blue dairies came around the departments we all shook our heads. “We’ll find something more colourful,” I assured the team. For one very practical reason it was easy to distinguish whose was whose and to spot them amidst even the most cluttered workspace. So, each autumn I would ensure that I chose spotty, striped or other patterned versions that fitted our team spirit and brightened up the desks. Somehow the arrival of those brightly coloured diaries on our desks cut through any autumn gloom and signalled the start of exciting new things to come, even if we didn’t know what was ahead there were dozens of fresh pages to fill with deadlines, events and even holidays to be added in.

Like most people, my diary for this year is a poor relation to those of previous years. It is full of rubbed out events and trips, with lots of what appear to be blank weeks – ah, that would be lockdown! So, as my very stylish 2020 diary is consigned to the bottom drawer, I am really hoping for something fresh in the new year. I will dutifully fill in the events for 2021 that coronavirus cannot cancel, like birthdays and anniversaries, but I’m wondering what else I might be able to add in…

After all, I’ve been thinking – “we walk by faith, not by sight.”

Standing on a rock

Posted on by
6

Twenty-nine years ago to the day I was sitting in church in a small Cumbrian town. It was Maundy Thursday and my husband was leading the service. It was a bright spring day, just like today. I was 29-years-old and expecting our second child. Another twinge in my tummy made me shift in the wooden pew and wince. Could it be starting? I wondered. 

Some hours later we welcomed our beautiful daughter into the world in Barrow-in-Furness hospital and it wasn’t long before her brother and her grandparents arrived to seal that very special Easter weekend event.

Today I wished our grown-up daughter happy birthday via Whatsapp video. She is expecting her first child and the due date is tomorrow. I can’t believe my baby is having a baby! 

But the world our grandchild will be born into looks vastly different.

When our eldest son was born, it wasn’t the easiest birth and I was grateful for very personal care and visits from my midwife and sometimes a health visitor. Having a baby brings enormous change. We didn’t make it easy for ourselves, of course, as two weeks after his birth I drove across the country from Nottingham to Carlisle for his father’s ordination and within another couple of weeks we moved house for a new job and life in Cumbria.

But all this stress and change pales into insignificance beside what is happening today with the Coronavirus.

It’s a daunting time too for anyone to be giving birth and caring for a tiny new person.

Yesterday I heard that midwives will no longer visit new mums at home, as all home care and checks have been suspended. They really are on their own once they leave hospital. No neighbours or friends will be allowed to call by and family aren’t even allowed to visit. I am worried about how isolating this will feel.

Our daughter is a paediatrician. She should be well equipped to keep an eye on the development of her new baby, who we pray arrives safely very soon. She has a loving husband who will take care of her. But I know she will struggle with not sharing this special time with friends and family or enjoying the practical love and support of her community.

Apart from the awaited new arrival, the virus is a challenge for us as a family in many ways with special events in jeopardy and all of us facing hidden fears of what might happen next.

This morning I read an article from an Italian writer talking about what we will face in the coming weeks. Francesca Melandri wrote: “At some point, you will realise it’s tough. You will be afraid. … That boat in which you’ll be sailing in order to defeat the epidemic will not look the same to everyone nor is it actually the same for everyone: it never was.”

But there is one thing that is the same. And it was the same 29 years ago in Cumbria, when I burst into tears on arriving at the hospital – I had my own fears to conquer.

I knew then, and I know now, that these words from Psalm 46 are true:

“God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble.”

When the world seems to be crumbling all we can do is remember we are standing on a rock and God is a the rock that can’t be shaken.

Unfinished stories and ‘Bird Box’

Posted on by
1

We began to watch a scary movie last night. The film became progressively more terrifying and depressing, until we both admitted we didn’t really want to watch it anymore and turned it off, without any argument.

This is very unusual for me. I am a consumer. I consume stories, so leaving one unfinished is like walking away and leaving a plate half full of chocolate cake (or your favourite food). It just isn’t done. Once I start a film or a book, almost however bad, I need to know the ending and find myself glued to the chair until the credits roll.

It took me by surprise to discover something new about myself today.

In the night half-run scenes from the film ran through my mind as a dream formed with Sandra Bullock in a blindfold serving up Toad-in-the-hole in our kitchen. When I woke-up I couldn’t help wondering about some of the facts in the half-watched film that didn’t make sense and how on earth her river journey would end. 

Giving in I decided to google the plot and read how the story unfolded and how it ended. Spoiler alert for Bird Box! If you want to watch it, skip this paragraph. She and the children make it, although most of the others die along the way. I told this rough outcome to the other film watcher in the bed beside me and something strange happened…

We decided, in the cold light of a rainy Saturday morning, to watch the rest of the film.

“I don’t mind watching it if that’s the outcome,” he said. And strangely, I agreed.

My insatiable desire to devour another story was satisfied. By the end of the second half of the film the blindfolds were off and the birds were singing. And I’d also discovered more about myself.

I want to eat up stories, but I don’t want stories without hope.

Faced with an impossible situation, it looked like there was no way forward for mum-to-be Malorie (aka Sandra Bullock). Once I knew there was a way through, some light at the end of the fast following river and the dark woods, I was prepared to be engaged. To suspend my disbelief for 40 minutes and join in with the journey of Bird Box. I knew that the hardships ahead would eventually lead to some kind of salvation.

The link with faith is obvious. But I’ve never realised how much hope is such an important part of how I live, the way I think and what I choose to consume.

The most interesting thought I’ve been left with is that with Bird Box, I knew the ending ahead. Someone had already seen it and told me how things would turn out, so there was no need to fear. It wasn’t just hopeful watching, willing her and the children to be OK. The hope was grounded in some facts. 

I don’t know how my life will pan out or exactly what the ending will be or when it will come, but my faith gives me hope. When life’s circumstances threaten to knock me down, or I feel like I’m walking blindfolded, I have hope. It’s not based on something from Google that tells me it will all be OK in the end. But it is based on God’s Word and his promises and on my experience of being held in His everlasting arms.

Now faith is confidence in what we hope for and assurance about what we do not see. Hebrews 1:11

Visiting death

Posted on by
Reply

I live just across the road from death. For the past 18 months – day or night – I have gazed across at the view from our house, where apart from a few palm trees and a scattering of houses, the Cypriot Greek Orthodox cemetery is the main feature. Last night when I looked over in that direction, before letting myself in through the front door, there were pinpricks of light speckled across the patch of land where the cemetery lies. The dozens of tiny candles or lanterns positioned on graves made an ethereal sight. I have seen this before, but with a pale white full moon, peeping out from behind the clouds, it was even more eerie and a little mysterious. I’ve been wondering about how the candles spring to light as soon as darkness falls or perhaps they are always lit and only visible in the darkness?

This question on my mind, I resolved to go and investigate, sensitively – but not at night. I decided to wander across and take a look when the sky was blue and the sun is shining, which in theory should make it much more commonplace.

So the other day I overcame my reservations and took an afternoon stroll to the cemetery. Beyond the white washed walls, black and white marble and dozens of flowers of every colour adorned the graves. Unlike an English graveyard, it seemed to be a place of regular activity. Newly placed flowers, mainly silk, lay on each grave and massively ornate headstones, many with roofs overhead, like mini shrines formed a place of tribute for loved ones. Photographs were in abundance too. As a foreign stranger it was interesting to see the faces of the dead, some young, some old, some with wives and some with children buried alongside them. There were recent dates and some that dated back from the island’s troubled past in the 60s and 70s. There were young soldiers too, pictured in uniforms with proud inscriptions.

The mystery of the lights soon became clear as I looked more carefully at the dozens of little oil lamps placed on each grave and in between them, I could see many were alight, with flickering yellow flames only just visible in the sunshine. There was a strong smell of paraffin and wax, a bit like the inside of the chapels and churches we’ve visited on the island. It seemed amazing that all these graves had people who came to tend them regularly, replacing flowers, planting flowers and bushes and replenishing the oils. Far from being a place that is rarely visited, the cemetery is quite often a hive of activity with dozens of cars lining the road and along the banks, as families and friends gather. And this isn’t just for funerals, there are also many memorial days for those who have died when special celebrations of their lives are held on six month and annual anniversaries. It’s clear the dead are very much alive in the hearts of Cypriots and they aren’t afraid to remember them.

Death visits us all in different ways. For me, it was almost 33 years ago this month that it visited our home when my mother died suddenly, while I was at university. Walking around the cemetery last week, I thought about her own grave, now also shared by my father. It is a village graveyard with a view across a rolling field where we used to go sledging as children. I like its simplicity and its rural outlook. But I also like the idea of the lanterns on the graves here and that someone goes there regularly to keep the oil topped up so the dead are never forgotten. For me, the idea of lights burning despite the darkness of a graveyard signals our hope of a life to come.

It’s a long time since I’ve visited the graveyard in Kent – but perhaps it’s time to go back and light a lantern there?