Saturday, 23 March 2013

Miracle? You judge.

Isn't it wonderful when something happens in your life that defies human explanation?  What happened to my nephew could be called God's perfect timing, an incredible co-incidence or a miracle.  You judge.

My nephew is a single parent in his mid-thirties.  He went for a scan because he has had digestion problems.  The scan didn't show the cause, but did go high enough to pick up an incredibly enlarged aorta.  Diameter 8 cm when it should have been 2.5 cm.  The alert doctors wouldn't let him home but sent him up in an ambulance to St George's where he became a peep show for students and other medical staff, because they had never seen anyone still alive with such a severe heart problem.  Within a few days he underwent major heart surgery.  It took 14 hours to make a repair, but the surgeons succeeded.  Basically, that scan and the operation saved his life.

Before the op the surgeon came round and said he was there to allay his fears.  My nephew said 'I'm not frightened, I'm into this God thing.  I am in His hands.'  The surgeon told him he was into God as well.  One other little attached miracle.  Prior to this he wanted some weights to save him the cost of the gym.  There was a little delay with this purchase, otherwise those weights would have been with him the morning of the scan.  Lifting those weights would have been the final straw for a heart about to rupture.

Now he is well on his way back to health.  He is looking forward to playing with his son and no longer feeling so tired.  His sense of humour has resurfaced as his pain has begun to reduce and he is looking forward to taking up sporting activities again.

I'm going to leave it there because anything else I say would look like insignificant rubbish against this powerful manifestation of God's love and grace.

Miracle?  Incredible co-incidence? Or God's perfect timing?  You judge.

Thursday, 3 January 2013

Trampled stars

It's nearly over, the wonderful Christmas season.  I am having trouble concentrating as I start back to work with signs of Christmas all around me.  I work from home so there are the obvious distractions like the Christmas tree, left-over crackers, a too-beautiful-to-start gluten free Christmas cake and stars everywhere.  Let me explain, it's simple really.  I washed my Christmas tablecloths on 40 degrees instead of 30 which caused the thousands of gold stars to peel off, going everywhere when I shook out the tablecloths ready to hang them to dry.  The stars are rather resistant to being hoovered up so we have them trampled throughout the house, like little reminders of dreams and hopes that have littered our lives - still  beautiful to remember but no longer bright and shining.  Washed out pale reminders of our past.

Back in my teens I wanted to be a missionary, but this star became a trampled thought as I was distracted by boyfriends and my desperate need to fit in with everyone else.  I was a shy child, awkward with others.  This was probably not my calling.  I longed to write.  But I didn't practise, keep it going.  The star withered away.  But other desires and thoughts arose - I loved being a mother and was busy and fulfilled.  I looked after other people's children and hated them going back.  When the children were small, my husband encouraged me to take an evening off from babies and try evening classes.  I found I had a brain.  This was a star I needed badly, having been convinced I was the worse dunce in the whole of my school.  So then came university and training as a psychologist.  And gradually, very gradually, back to writing again.

I'm waiting for my writing star to shoot upwards, but maybe it will never happen.  Maybe it will glint brightly for a while, or become stronger and be joined by the resurrected missionary star as I reach others through written words.

But the best star of my youth, and of today, is the one that shone over the Christ-child and represents to me the reflection of my faith.

May your hopes, dreams and faith shine brightly at the beginning of this New Year.