Mamaw's Sonnet

Wondering where we've been the past week? (You're like, 'Uh, no...') Well, we've been away up north in the Cairngorm mountains enjoying a lovely wee holiday, just Scott, Jaguar and myself, while our sweet daughters are in Portugal with their wonderful grandparents.

While we had a great holiday, and I'll talk about that later, we had some sad news while we were there. My grandma, my 'Mamaw', passed away on Thursday early morning. We've been expecting it for a while, so it wasn't a shock, but it was still very sad for me. Being away from 'home' (even though Scotland is also 'home') is really hard in times like these.

My mom asked me to write a poem for the funeral. For me, poetry is such a visceral and peculiar thing; I write in a certain way, with the words seeming to bubble up out of my very guts, and I employ heavy imagery and abrupt line breaks and usually end up with pretty bleak unexpected outcomes. None of these were terribly appropriate for writing a poem for a funeral.

And considering I had only one afternoon in which to do it, and no computer with me, the task was an immense one.

I sat down with a pad of children's colouring paper, the only paper I could find in the house we were staying in, and a pencil with no eraser, and started jotting down ideas. I haven't handwritten anything longer than a message in a card in years, and besides that, I didn't know what to say or how to say it succinctly enough for its purpose.

I wanted to do Mamaw's memory justice. I wanted to do my relationship with her justice.

I also wanted it to have poetic merit. I am a writer and don't like to put my name to anything I'm not proud of.

Finally, after agonising for hours, after three front and back sheets of paper covered in one liners, quatrains, scribbles and glib phrases, I was ready to give up.

So I gave up. I gave up trying to be literary. I gave up trying to incorporate all Mamaw was into one little passage. I gave up trying to be poignant. I had a few lines I'd written in rhyme (not my usual style) which I suddenly realised could give me a framework in which to write: I would write a sonnet.

An English sonnet (or Shakespearean sonnet) is 14 lines, consisting of three quatrains and a couplet, with a rhyme scheme of abab cdcd efef gg. Generally speaking, the first two quatrains will have one focus, then the focus shifts for the second half, with the couplet often 'summing up' the sonnet.

Here is Mamaw's Sonnet. It's not book-worthy or a competition winner; it's not lofty or mind-blowing; it's not even a perfect sonnet (some lines aren't exact iambic pentameter, many of the rhyming words are only slant rhymes). It's just about my mamaw, it's just a simple poem written in her memory.

Goodbye, Mamaw. I hope you were able to hear it in heaven.

Mamaw's Sonnet
When we parted last, it was with tears -
We both knew it would be our last goodbye.
So frail, so thin, worn out with many years,
She couldn't speak, but still she fought to try.
And yet when I remember her tomorrow
Fond memories of her will make me smile.
So rather than goodbyes and tearful sorrow--
The things I loved about her, as a child:
Mamaw making pickles and sewing drapes,
The nights of Lawrence Welk on PBS.
She made me learn to cook and how to bake
But I liked playing dominoes the best!
It's memories like these I wish to hold
For bodies age but love does not grow old.

Giving Up Grumpy

I've never been a member of a church or denomination that practices Lent but have practised it on my own for many years. When I first started, I was very pious, and did it 'the right way' - replaced x with times of prayer, focused on repentance, all the good stuff.

The last two years have been the hardest, as my faith in God was waning significantly, and I found it hard to do Lent 'right'. Last year, while I maintained my Lenten fast (no drinks other than tap water for 40 days), there was pretty much no religiosity to it. But I didn't feel guilty about it. In many aspects of life, if not all, we fail to achieve our goals with perfection and immaculately spotless motives. For a believer, guilt should be given no lurking space in our hearts, and while I'm a pretty pathetic believer, I still believe in giving guilt the old heave-ho.

This year, Lent has come early, not giving me much time to think on it. In years past, something would always come to me - usually something very hard to give up, like meat or cake - and I knew right away it was the thing. Nothing like that has come to me this year. I considered just skipping Lent this year, but Lent is a discipline, and discipline is the most effective when it's done... well, out of discipline.

So what can I give up this year that will mean something to me? Giving up alcohol or chocolate is always an option, but I don't think it would have any real meaning to me this year. It would just be an act, a challenge, but nothing spiritual would really come of it. My life goal for this year is 'Simplicity'; I could give up a physical 'thing' each day, but let's be honest - would I actually remember to do this? Doubtful. So, if I want to practice Lent this year, and I want to do something that will make a difference to me spiritually, what can I give up?

I've decided to give up negativity.

Once, a few years ago, I gave up anger. It was wonderful. I learned so much self-control that year, and felt so much happier with my life, my kids and my husband. So this year, I'm going to take it that one step further and give up all negativity. If I'm around gossip, I'm going to turn it into something positive. If my kids spill my SodaStream syrup all over the floor and the cabinets (AGAIN), I will keep calm (unlike LAST TIME). If Scott and I disagree and I start to feel nippy, I'll hug him instead (possibly quite aggressively). I'm going to take negative feelings and situations and turn them into positive ones.

No question I will fail many times. But life - and Lent - aren't about perfection. They are about learning, growing, trying, and most of all, forgiving. Forgiving ourselves for our mistakes, forgiving others for theirs. Accepting ourselves and each other for the imperfect beings we are, and reaching towards betterment, tripping and falling even as we grasp for it. Repenting of our mistakes; in other words turning around and trying again. I'll probably find myself getting angry at my misbehaving kids. I'll probably find myself annoyed at obnoxious people and bad drivers. I'll probably get snippy with my husband for not taking out the rubbish. I'll probably grumble about housework. But when I catch myself in these negative moments, I am going to gather all my strength and will-power and steer myself out of it, like a boat steering out of choppy waters.

I'm two days late starting Lent, but better late than never. See how positive I'm being already?

What are you giving up for Lent? Leave your comments below!

Nine Valentines

Nine Valentine's Days.

That's coming up for a decade of being the same person's Valentine year in, year out.

It's a strange but wonderful thought.

My memories of unmarried Valentine's Days are few. I had lots of boyfriends in my day but never seemed to have one on Valentine's Day. Scott tells me this is intentional on boyfriends' parts, so they don't have to buy a gift. I believe it. I remember one year, a guy from school, Matt Yeager, brought a bucketful of red roses and gave a single rose to every girl he knew. He was always such a romantic; I don't know whatever happened to him, but I hope he's married to some girl who simply adores and appreciates his romantic side - and pays it back.

My first Valentine's with Scott consisted of him sending me a bouquet of roses from Scotland, in a turquoise vase, which I kept ever since, until about a year ago when my darling beloved child broke it. It had a green Irish teddy bear with it; InterFlora must have assumed Ireland/Scotland/same thing.

My second Valentine's was here with Scott in our first home, our first married Valentine's together, and he made me a fancy, romantic dinner. I'll never forget - steaks, mashed potatoes with the skins and asparagus drizzled in lemon butter.

My third Valentine's with Scott was a Bombay Sapphire cocktail-making class in Glasgow, where we learned to make fancy gin cocktails, and where we developed a cocktail snobbery. Cosmopolitan without the flaming orange? Not a Cosmopolitan.

And that... is where I begin to forget.

Kids came along that year. Fifi would have been less than a month old that year, and every year after that is just a blur. I know Scott has brought me home Oriental lilies just about every year, a major sacrifice for him with his allergies, but in general, I can't remember what we've done on this favourite of holidays for the past six years. We tried to do a back-and-forth thing, where we take turns planning our Valentine's dates, but each year, for the past several years, we can't remember who's turn it is.

I've been thinking today though. Valentine's has always been one of my favourite holidays. I love all the gushy mushy stuff, I love red roses and my Oriental lilies, I love chocolate-covered strawberries and jewellery and romance. But at this stage in our lives, with children and trying to make ends meet and housework and busy schedules, romance gets sort of the back seat... and not the good kind of back seat. I miss doing all that lovey-dovey Valentines stuff that couples - especially dating couples - put so much effort into.

It's true that Scott and I agreed to save our Valentine's date for next week when the children are away with grandparents, and we can have a nice, relaxing week away ourselves. I'm not suggesting that Scott and I have blown it this year. But I am thinking that next year, I'm going to kick the whole Valentine's thing back up a notch. I've seen so many sweet ideas on blogs, Pinterest and Facebook that I wish I had thought of doing, to show my man how much I still fancy him, how attractive he still is to me, how deeply I love him, and how much I enjoy spending time with him. I want him to know that, despite the season of life we are in, he still makes me giggly and happy, and I still love the socks off him... and the shirt, and well, everything else. *Wink.

I'm looking forward to next week, when we'll have the chance to get away for almost a whole week with just the baby - no other kids, no internet, no housework, just me and him (and hopefully a baby who just sleeps a lot), some books, some TV, some good conversation, some lovely walks, a cosy fire, a few leisurely outings, and a romantic dinner or two. Because I still love my Valentine, nine years later, more than I loved him on that very first, or even second, when the fire burned so brightly... but as we've learned, the brightest fire isn't always the hottest, and it isn't the fire that lasts the longest. I want our fire to burn brightly, but more importantly, steadily, forever.

Why I Left My Church

I've been fighting with myself for some time over whether to post about this or not. On the one hand, I don't want to trash anyone or upset anyone, particularly those I am still friends with in the church. On the other hand, rumours (always rumours) are going around about why we left, and they are false, and worse than being just false, they are hurtful. And if the rumours were just hurtful to us, we'd get on with it and ignore it, but the rumours aren't hurting us - they are hurting another family instead, a family I don't want to see hurt anymore. So what to do?

I think the only thing I can do is set the record straight. Explain why we left.

First of all, no statement has been made at the church informing everyone that we have left, which is the usual procedure. This means most people just think we've stopped going. Again, it doesn't matter much to us that people just assume we're "backsliding" (gotta love Christianese), but it's not the full story. As I've said here before, I and the children are attending a new church, one we feel very happy in, and one we are going to formally join. So first of all, in case people do not realise, we have formally left the church via letter to the overseers, deacons and members (though only the overseers have been allowed to see it), and the letter is very, very clear why.

The easiest way of doing this would just be to post a copy of the letter... but again, I'm not sure if I'm totally comfortable with this. However, I keep coming back to these rumours, so...

The rumour is that Scott and I have left because of a certain man in the church. This could not be further from the truth. In fact, it is practically the opposite; we have left in part because of the way everyone else has treated this one man. ("Everyone" being, of course, a generalisation, not a total absolution.) The story going 'round the pews is that he is the reason we have left, and this has been said to his face by leaders in the church (with whom we'd already had extensive conversations regarding our leaving and had already read the letter before making this claim). You can imagine the hurt this would cause anyone, but what's worse is the close relationship I have with his wife. Thankfully, this couple had already been made privy to my letter prior to being told to their faces that they were the reason we left, so that saved a lot of misunderstandings and pain, but it was only by coincidence that they had read the letter. It would have been a lot more likely that they hadn't, and if that had been the case, well... you see what I'm trying to say.

Rumours cause damage, that's what I'm getting at.

The other reason we left is more general, and it is a fault of probably many churches. Just because it is a general fault, however, does not mean it ought to be swept under the carpet and ignored. We felt that the church offered very little teaching or discipleship. We really needed some good Biblical teaching to keep us going, but our request for this to the leaders was rejected over and over. As the years went by, our secret doubts and questions grew and grew but no answers were offered. Who knows how many other people are secretly struggling and getting no help from the one place that claims to have those answers?

It's been said, in just about as many words, regarding our dissatisfaction with the teaching that 'Oh well, it's too bad Scott and Lori have left, but they were having problems anyway.' Insane! That's like telling a starving man, 'Oh well, we didn't give you any food, but you were already hungry anyway.' It hurts to be waved off so lightly, from a church Scott was raised in, and we have both been so active in for eight years. Yet another reason I hesitate to post this: It's a sad and painful situation for me.

So, to set the record straight, I paste below a copy of the letter sent to the church (edited for anonymity). I sincerely hope it does not offend the wrong people. It may offend others, but I am tired of being used as a pawn in an agenda to hurt people who do not deserve to be hurt. That offends me.

***
To the overseers, deacons and members of [the Church],

It is with sadness yet careful consideration that we write to you this letter stating our decision to remove our membership from the [Denomination]. This decision was not a quick or easy one; indeed it has been months in the making. Our reason for leaving is twofold:

1 - For many years we have felt the church has offered very little in the way of discipleship and teaching to its members. When the Family Service was started so many years ago, it was stated explicitly that the purpose was to build up the members and not to become a ‘gospel meeting’. Yet very quickly it became nothing more than an outreach. Outreach is important, of course, but should not replace the church’s obligation to feed and shepherd its own flock. We spoke to people about this on numerous occasions and put to the leadership our desire for it to offer more teaching intended to build up its members, the body of Christ, for our spiritual growth. This was never acted upon. Instead, the Family Service, and many of the other various meetings aside from the [Lord's Supper], began directing all its efforts to outreach and none to in-reach. In plain terms, it became mostly a church for drug addicts. We requested that the ministries be more challenging, perhaps going through a book of the Bible in depth or a short series on a Biblical topic, in order to give the body more ‘meat’ to feed on and be challenged by, instead of only ‘milk’. This was refused over and over by the leadership. Due to lack of teaching and challenging, we found ourselves struggling with our faith but with nowhere to go. We began to feel the church had nothing to offer us, and even more sadly, it seemed uninterested in what we, as active members, desperately needed.

We’d been approached by the overseers about our lack of attendance at the [Lord's Supper]. As a young family with two children and one on the way, our attendance had dwindled considerably. We agreed we would make more effort to attend regularly again as soon as we recovered from the birth of our third child. A couple of weeks after his birth, I, Lori, went to the [Lord's Supper] for the first time in a year and really enjoyed it. A glimmer of hope ignited in my heart that maybe things were really changing and there would finally be something for us spiritually in this church.

At the same time, after years of asking for ‘meatier’ ministries, the leadership decided to have a short block of sessions focusing on the topic of end-time prophecy. While this might not have been our personal choice of subject matter, we were very excited that finally something was being done, and we, for the first time in years, began to look forward to Sunday mornings again.

This is where the biggest problem, and our second main reason for leaving, comes in.

2 - The general reception of this series of ministries was appalling. People displayed their unhappiness with this decision by boycotting the meetings – in essence, ‘voting with their feet’ – because of, quite frankly, who was leading them. The response to what we felt was such a positive step in the future of our church was to decry the subject matter and the speaker. It became personal. People began to launch personal attacks on other members, causing irrevocable hurt to people with known sensitivities. This I observed with my own eyes. Stories and gossip spread, and as things filtered back to us, we couldn’t believe how skewed and untrue, not to mention hurtful, they were. Never had we expected to see such behaviour in a church that before had seemed so loving and accepting. It seemed the love and acceptance were reserved for outsiders and drug addicts only, but not its very own members.

This was what made the final decision for us. The first positive step the church had made in years resulted in boycotts, personal attacks and a huge divide among its members. To a family already struggling with doubts, this was the last thing we needed to witness. Not only had we been repeatedly ignored when we asked for teaching, we now saw the distasteful way people could be treated by their own church family. We realised then that [the Church], and the [Denomination], was no longer a place we wanted to be or where we wanted our children to grow up.

It is sad for us to have come to this conclusion. Scott has been a member of the [Denomination] his entire life, and Lori has been a member since moving to Scotland eight years ago. We have waited to write this letter until we were sure of what we wanted to say, and until we had found a new place to attend church, which we now have. We recognise that we ourselves are nowhere near perfect, and we hardly expect anyone else to be. We are not placing the blame solely on the church for our issues of faith – we recognise there is personal accountability - but we do feel the church has failed in its responsibility to care for the spiritual needs of its members. As far as the way people have been treated, we certainly understand that no church is without its conflicts, but we also never expected to witness such un-Christlike behaviour from our church. We have no personal bad feelings, no personal agendas, against anyone, but we cannot in good faith maintain membership in the [Denomination] after the manner in which we have seen people be treated. We have many friends in the church, and it pains us to leave, and it pains us to write this letter. We only hope that by speaking frankly about our decision that it will lead the church to reconsider its obligation to feed and disciple its members first and to outreach second, so that it does not become an outreach church (‘drug addict church’) only, and that people will also take responsibility for how deeply their negative actions are hurting vulnerable people – whether they are aware of those people’s vulnerability or not.

In Christ’s love,
Scott and Lori

Mad Hatter's Tea Party

It was a little late, but it couldn't be helped.

Fifi's 6th birthday was at the end of January. Originally, her party was booked for the following Saturday, two days past her birthday, but that ended up unfortunately falling on the same day as her class's entry into the Inverclyde Music Festival, so the party date had to be set back another week. Her party, therefore, was over a week late, but that's just how it goes.

The whole point is, anyway, that the rabbit is running late for a very important date.

And the Mad Hatter's Tea Party was for celebrating his un-birthday.

So it all worked.

This year, instead of going through the blood, sweat and tears of organising a big birthday party, I paid a friend of mine to do it for me. Fifi wanted a tea party, so I had my friend from a cute little tea shop called Teacups organise a lovely Mother & Daughter Mad Hatter's Tea Party for me, and boy, did she deliver!

The girls all arrived in their fancy party dresses and/or Alice In Wonderland costumes, and were ecstatic over all the beautiful real tea cups and tea pots set out at their special table, not to mention all the beautiful sweets. "This is how the post people do it!" I heard one of the girls say.

I had envisioned the mothers sitting with their daughters, making jewellery together with the kits at each place setting, but instead, the children took one table and relegated the mothers to the other. In the end, this turned out to be a blessing in disguise, as we mums don't often get the chance to sit at a big table together with nice tea, coffee and cakes and just chat for an hour and a half while our darling daughters behave wonderfully!

The girls had a great time, and they all behaved so well. They enjoyed pouring their own 'tea' (diluting juice in tea pots), trying on their chocolate moustaches, eating all the sandwiches (jam and Nutella sandwiches, shaped like hearts), devouring the cupcakes and jelly, and inspecting the birthday cake and party favours. Oh, and they got immense pleasure out of playing with the wind-up rabbits on the tables. In fact, an hour went by before they began asking for something to do. They had been overall uninterested in the jewellery kits, so I got some of them to start in on those while we mums finished our coffees, and then we played Pass the Parcel. Following that, we sang Happy Birthday, sliced open the cake, and, well, the party was over. It was just such an easy afternoon!

I must say thanks to Pauline and all the staff at Teacups for such a wonderful party, and to Robyn, who helped me make the cake and the party favours. And thanks to Marion, my MIL, for helping out so much with Jaguar (who was not a happy baby during the party) and to Lorna for taking Lolly and Fifi after the party overnight! Talk about a carefree birthday party experience in every way!

Sick Days

It's been quiet around here, because since Sunday, we've all been lying on our death beds, making bargains with sleep for respite from our misery.

I took Fifi and Jaguar to church on Sunday, leaving Lolly at home with Scott. Lolly had already been feeling rotten since Thursday night. When we arrived at church, I noticed Fifi was acting a big clingy and funny, but I assumed she was just being shy without Lolly there with her. Then Jaguar, who is usually quite cheerful and quiet during church, happy to take a boob if he starts getting chatty, started crying and refused to feed. I took him out into the back hall to the creche, and while playing with him in there, my back started aching, and then my neck and head. By the time church was over, I was feeling completely exhausted. I took Fifi from Sunday School, and she looked pale and lethargic. We came home, with Jaguar crying, and all three of us went straight to bed.

We were still there Monday morning.

All four of us, I and the three children, have come down with a flu-like virus that is seemingly attacking the whole entire town. Yesterday and today, only two children showed up for nursery. All of the kids' friends from school and nursery are off with this illness. It is rubbish.

We stayed in bed all Sunday and Monday. Today though, unfortunately, we had to venture out for some groceries, as our fridge was empty (not that any of us have much of an appetite) and also I needed to mail some ebay parcels. The girls did not want to go, so I bribed them with McDonald's Happy Meals (it got some food in them, at least) and let them go to the shops in their pajamas. We must have looked like freaks.

So that's where we've been the last few days. I'm starting to feel better, just battling a runny nose now and a bit of light-headedness. The children are all at varying degrees of wellness, though I think they'll be staying off school again tomorrow, at least for one more day.

But let me just say, the kindness of people in my life really blows me away. Yesterday, while feeling like a soggy plastic bag stuck to a tree branch flapping around in the wind and rain getting pooed on by seagulls, a new friend, who I've only just recently started getting to know, texted me to ask if I needed anything from Tesco. Gratefully, I asked if she could just possibly bring me some milk and some tomato soup if it really wouldn't be too much bother, and I'd give her the pennies for it. She arrived at my door with a whole bag of groceries for us, including two kids' magazines for the girls, and refused to take anything for it. She then offered to let me go to bed while she watched Jaguar for a wee while. I preferred to stay up and have some company, so she held Jaguar while I shivered under a blanket and had some friendly adult conversation.

Later that day, my dear mother-in-law popped in, who was herself feeling miserable with this virus, with another bag of shopping, and stayed to help look after the kids for me for a while. She even took Lolly to the chemist for me to get the kids some more medicine.

Honestly, if I ever wondered if good people still existed in this world, I needed only look right around me. One day when I write my memoirs about the people who influenced my life and made a difference, these people will be getting whole chapters. Thank you both.

And now... I dare say, it's bedtime again.

January Book Review

January is finished, and so is my January book.

(About two-thirds the way through the month, I decided my 'book-a-month' thing would happen, finally, and determined I would finish it by the 31st. I finished it last night.)

Soul Survivor by Phillip Yancey was most remarkably - divinely? - the perfect book for me in my present faith crisis. Turned off by the church, sickened by Christian hypocrisy, cynical of the infiltrating mysticism, exasperated by stubborn Right Wing Evangelicals, faithless and empty, I was sceptical that a book - a Christian book - would be of any use to me.

The book was recommended to me by someone, and I mentally placed the recommendation to one side as a 'Yeah, maybe, thanks.' Then a few weeks later, we were visiting friends in Edinburgh and the book resurfaced again. The whole day was relaxed, enjoyable, and to my great relief, my Christian friend did not once bring up my confused, uncertain (lack of) faith. It was only upon seeing us to the door that she gently and sensitively handed me the book with simple words, 'It just made me think of you.' I gratefully accepted her gift, and the discernment with which it was given. (Thank you, Judith.)

I started the book a few days later, and from the very start, I realised this was not going to be your average Christian bookshop self-help rubbish. Yancey begins by sharing his own experience with the church - an experience that pushed him away from it, and from God, because of the same reasons I have. Hypocrisy, lies, and spiritual and emotional manipulation were among some of our mutual complaints.

He goes on to discuss thirteen different men and women who's lives and written works drew him back to a belief in God. Not one of those thirteen people were expected. No Billy Grahams or Benny Hinns here.

Instead, he dedicates chapters to the least likely sources, many of whom would be considered horrible role models for a Christian, some of whom were not Christian at all. And yet, as I read about each person, I was struck with how much I related to all of them, in most cases because they were not your squeaky-clean church variety.

Great historical figures like Mahatma Ghandi, Martin Luther King Junior, and John Donne are included in this list. Not a one lived a 'holy' squeaky-clean life (in fact, all three liked their women), but all three looked to Jesus for inspiration and as the model of whom they wanted to emulate.

People I had never encountered before like Paul Brand and C. Everett Koop impressed me, as men outside the accepted Evangelical circles, but who's love for God's people shone brighter than the average church-goer today. Brand, who dedicated his life to care for the untouchable people of the world, people with leprosy, and Koop, who understood the difference between his own moral stance on abortion and homosexuality and his responsibility as Surgeon General to care for the needs of all Americans, including those who's choices and beliefs differed from his, placed a bit of hope in me that there really are devout Christians out there who are not only 'practising what they preach' but doing so with intellectualism and unconditional compassion.

(Koop might be the figure who inspired me the most - second to Frederick Buechner, who I'll get to shortly - as a man who believed faith and science could go hand in hand. He used his position as Surgeon General to help numerous people with AIDS, sometimes just sitting with them and listening to their stories, in a decade when most church folk rejected AIDS patients as people who had brought their disease upon themselves with their immoral lifestyles.)

Then there were the writers. Yancey is not a typical Christian best-selling author; he is a real writer (I was surprised), one who actually writes because he must and cannot live without doing so. He writes several chapters on fellow writers, who also share his faith to varying degrees and with varying conclusions, and again, none who are squeaky-cleaners. Annie Dillard, Henri Nouwen, Shusaku Endo and Frederick Buechner are a few of the authors who I am now eager to get my hands on. Many of these writers in my younger days of evangelical zeal I would have written off as unorthodox or even heretical. Now, though, through the eyes of a fellow searcher, a fellow imperfect and a fellow writer, I see people honestly expressing what they know and don't know and relying on God anyway, through days of belief and days of doubt.

The most inspiring chapter for me was that on Frederick Buechner. I think every word about him and quoted from him resonated deeply with me, as a human and as a writer. I feel kinship with a guy who had intellectual doubts and felt like an outsider to the church. His advice to 'listen to your life' and discover that in even the boring and mundane there are key moments to be revealed has changed the way I have lived, quite literally, in the past few days. I have stopped to cherish and revel in as many moments as possible - while pouring the kids' cereal, while opening a tin of soup, while running through the rain and the hail and the wind in tears with my baby - and I have found tiny glimpses of meaning that have in all past like moments been overlooked. I have started writing like I haven't written in years. I have purchased a journal and have been carting it with me everywhere I go, jotting down comments, notes, thoughts and more at all hours of the day and night. I even have the foetus of a novel growing.

In short, this one book has introduced me to a great number of people who have rekindled my hope that there might indeed be a God who actually does change lives, and a number of works for me to get my fingers on. I have made a reading list that will last me all year from the suggestions in this book alone.

This is probably a very poor book review; that is because it is no ordinary book. It is not a beginning-middle-and-end sort of book; it doesn't start with a premise and attempt to prove it. It is just a book on how his 'faith survived the church'. What a tagline. Can my faith survive the church? Maybe. Maybe.

Blessed With Peace

All the walls painted a blueish shade of white, desperate to appear homey instead of clinical, swelled inward around her, as if trying to subtly choke her without the midwives noticing. Visions and beliefs, once so clear, blurred and spilled over her eyelids in suffocating silence, something akin to grief.

She had plans for this baby; she was going to shape this baby's soul and nature with these plans. All she had imagined for eight endless months was birthing her precious child in love and tranquillity in the peace of her own darkened home, in a pool of warm calming water. She was going to have a baby associated with that element, a gentle, flowing water-child, soft and peaceful and able to love.

She was new to babies and birth but had done all she could to be ready for this moment. Well, not this moment, but the moment of her dreams and plans. This moment engulfed her, frightened her, grieved her. She was being told that there was no chance for a natural birth, let alone a homebirth or a waterbirth, and the section would be booked for 39 weeks gestation.

Hours later, she gathered the blankets around her body up to her neck in the late afternoon, pulled-curtains semi-darkness, and allowed the sadness to slowly and warmly trickle over her. She spoke quietly but audibly to her unborn baby, telling her all plans she had for her, apologising to her for what would have to take place, and blessing the child who could live thanks to the very technology and science that so frightened her. She prayed her baby could still be born into the serenity she imagined would mark the child's life, though her entry into the world would be far from serene.

The day was booked - 2nd of February, Groundhog Day. But instead, four days earlier, her body once again resisted her intentions and bled its warning. She was brave but only briefly. Bravery turned to concern which turned to anxiety as doctors waited, stoic experts. Tears once again, this baby more acquainted with fear now instead of peace. Finally, she was wheeled into the room, more blueish-white walls, more homelike-attempts, and she greeted the moment she would meet this child who had consumed her every thought. Please, God, let there be calm. Though this baby will not flow into the world as she should have, bless this baby with the gift of sweet peacefulness.

******
The girl born into blood-soaked hands in a room of bright lights and irrelevant chatter was indeed blessed with sweet peacefulness. Her mother's wishes were granted, not in the way she had wished them, but granted nonetheless. Her daughter flows through life with cheerfulness, joy, kindness and gentleness, along with comical clumsiness, like green water tripping over a stony, crooked brook, squirrels and bluebirds giggling nearby. She is indeed her mother's water-baby, pure and bright and deserving of her name: "white, fair" Fifi.

Happy sixth birthday.

Time 2 Jam

I don't care if I sound like a broken record; this chore schedule app is rocking my world. My house is in a state of manageability at nearly all times. Granted, last week, when we were all hit with a sickness virus, the house somehow turned to disaster - though considering we were all in bed for 24 hours straight, I have no idea how it got so messy - I'm beginning to wonder if Gremlins actually do exist - but in general, I've been able to keep on top of things. And this is liberating.

For instance, my bathroom sink gets cleaned nearly every day. I go to bed most nights with clean kitchen counters and an empty sink. Dishes are not piling up. Laundry is not piling up. I am probably jinxing myself by saying this, but my house feels happy.

This leaves me time to do other things that I don't normally have the chance to do, things lower on the priority list. Yesterday afternoon, Lolly and I cleared out my wardrobe. Completely. I ditched my hanging shelves and put everything on hangers. Then? I colour-coordinated them.

Today, I had Lolly's best friend Eden over and a few other girls from their nursery to celebrate Eden's birthday. It didn't take long to get the house ready for guests at all. (With Eden's mum's help) I just had to put away a few breakfast dishes, wipe down the bathroom, and hoover. That left me plenty of time to ice a cake, feed a Jaguar and have a cup of tea with my friend. Incredible!

(Let me also interject that if it weren't for my clean house last night, making this checkerboard cake would have been twice as stressful. But since I didn't have the house to worry about, I was free to concern myself only with the fact that I didn't make enough batter to make three equal sized layers and that though the recipe said bake for 30-35 minutes, it only needed 15 and therefore one of the layers was rather... crispy.)

After the party (thanks to the mums who helped me put all the toys back away), my house was clean again, and it left me with spare time (!!), something I am unaccustomed to... at least guilt-free spare time. So I made jam.

I haven't made jam in a long time; it's not something that is a high priority, and it takes a lot of time, patience and attention. But with everything clean and up to date, I could actually envision myself standing over a boiling pot of fruit with a stirring spoon. So, I made jam.

My favourite jam is apricot, and it is so easy to make. I didn't have enough apricots to make the full recipe, so I made half. For the purpose of this post though, I'll give you the ingredients for a full batch. (Does jam get measured in batches?)

Apricot Jam
1 kg fresh ripe apricots, quartered and pitted (leave skins on)
juice of 1 lemon
250ml water
1 kg caster sugar (I'm sure granulated would work just fine too)
1 spoonful of butter

Stir together the apricots, lemon juice and water in a large saucepan and slowly heat, stirring occasionally. Once at a boil, reduce heat and simmer for about 15 minutes or until the fruit is soft.

Meanwhile, wash jars and sterilise by putting them in the oven for, oh, I don't know how long. I just put them in at the start of the process and take them out at the end.

Once the fruit has simmered and softened, remove from heat. You don't have to, but I like to mash it all up here with a potato masher to make the fruit bits smaller. Add the sugar and stir until dissolved. Add the spoonful of butter and return to heat, stirring until butter is melted.

Bring jam to a boil and allow it to boil rapidly for 15 minutes or so to set it. To check if it is set, you're supposed to chill a plate, spoon some jam onto it, wait a couple of minutes and then push it with your finger. If the surface wrinkles, it is set. Saying that, in all my jam-making years, I've never managed to achieve this wrinkly surface thing, so either I never let it boil long enough, or I am testing it wrong. Anyway, that's the theory.

Last, spoon jam into your warm, clean jars and close the lids tightly. To seal the jars, place the lidded jars into a saucepan of deep water (not covering the jars though) and bring to a boil. I don't know the magic number of minutes to leave boiling, I just boil for a wee while, 5-10 minutes, and then turn heat off. If you are using lids with the safety seal button, you should be able to push the button in after they have cooled a bit, and then you know they are sealed.

And voila, the yummiest apricot jam that will last for months, if left sealed. This jam won me (well, technically the Gaelic nursery) first prize at the Port Glasgow Bulb Show a few years ago. Either it's *that* good, or there were very few entries.

Either way, it's jam good on toast!

*Special tip - this jam is even awesomerly amazinger if you use both apricots AND peaches. I just didn't have any peaches. However, I can't remember if the peach skins need to be removed, it's been a long time since I made it that way. But I'm talking freaking YUM.

Lori's Essential Life List Rules and Theories

1. Everyone has an Uncle John.

2. You either like John Travolta or you like George Clooney. Maybe neither. But never both.

3. Ladies: If your dad or equivalent had facial hair, you'll be attracted to men with facial hair. Gentlemen: To a lesser extent, if your mother or equivalent had long hair, you'll be attracted to long hair.

4. Deciding between 'who' and 'whom' is easy. Just take your sentence, replace the who/whom with the word 'him'. If it sounds right with 'him', it is 'whom'. If it sounds wrong, it is 'who'. I call it the 'M' rule. (Sometimes the sentence will need to be restructured to make it work, but if restructured correctly, the 'M' rule will still work.)

5. Likewise, if you are going to say something about somebody else, first replace their name with yours. If it sounds right with your name, it is okay. If it sounds wrong, it is not.

6. Cake recipes can be made slightly less fattening by replacing the oil with applesauce.

7. In relationships, there is no such person as 'The One'. There are only 'The Not Ones'.

8. If you pee with the door open, your children will learn to use the toilet faster. (This theory is still in the beta testing phase.)

9. Make your bed every day, and your room will always appear cleaner.

10. It's just hair. It will grow.