Heart Matters.

February, it’s all about hearts!  You may be feverishly scanning the shelves for Valentine cards (new relationship) or just musing on how you could buy a magazine for the price of a card these days (less new relationship.  Don’t look at me, I’m just saying some might!)  And while people are thinking of the emotional state of their hearts, they can think about their real beating ones (thanks British Heart Foundation).  Any attention called to heart health/awareness is a good idea.  For most people there’s a lot of things they can do to help themselves with the right information and support.  I can’t believe that Valentine, who is after all a saint and therefore should be pretty understanding about these sorts of things, wouldn’t mind sharing his day for the sake of the nation’s health.  And of course I have a vested interest in matters of the heart.

It has been a year since I began my enquiries to find out, as far as possible, if my condition, Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy, is inherited.  When we began tests at the University Hospital in London I was told it would be a while before they could be reasonably sure one way or another.  The funding wasn’t able to support all the research being done for heart disease so, like all good English folk, I took my place in the queue and waited.  In the meantime of course, life doesn’t.  Kate is expecting her baby in March and we await our first grandchild with huge excitement.  And now there’s a new disquieting thought; if it’s an inherited gene, there’s a possibility it can be passed on to my grandchild.

As the owner of a damaged heart, I often find myself thinking of Psalm 139 and what it means to be ‘fearfully and wonderfully’ made.  The endless potential of humanity, its depth and breadth captured in two words.  David was a master poet!  I don’t think Mary Shelly for all her literary genius topped that, even as she was knitting Frankenstein’s creation together.  A single cell dividing and containing every piece of information ever required to become a human being is mind blowing.  If the very action of being created isn’t conviction enough of a creator then I’m not sure what is.  This is very much on my mind as I see the first scan of our grandchild at twelve weeks.  The design of the human being is awesome.  ‘I praise you for I am fearfully and wonderfully made’.  But not perfectly made.  Not this side of heaven.

We don’t yet know if a rogue gene plays a part in our family health.  So many others are in a ‘waiting room’ too hoping for the best, dreading the worst.  And yet as Christians we know it’s not about perfect bodies but about a relationship with and a hope in God.  This is where we learn to trust.  In our most unfixable maybe broken state, this is where we learn that God will speak into our circumstances.  He does know, He does care and He still has things to say in and through our most helpless of infirmities.  For all of us in our waiting rooms, let’s wait with hope and expectation.

Love in Jesus,

Lisa

Christmas 2011 – ‘Born in a camp’

Jesus’ iconic image is borrowed so many times you wonder if he wished he’d got himself an agent!  He’s appeared on ‘The Simpsons’ and ‘South Park’ and at least one episode of ‘House’. Usually cast in a supporting role to the stars of the programme.

‘Image of Jesus appeared on man’s toast’ is the sort of story much loved by the red tops.  It leads me to suspect that his intellectual property isn’t as robustly protected as, oh I don’t know, say Pippa Middleton’s.  He is constantly misquoted or being used to spearhead some vaguely ethical campaign.  When others invoke him, as the protesters outside St. Paul’s Cathedral did recently, it really does make for some disquiet.   WWJD?  That is the question.   The recently resigned Canon Chancellor Giles Fraser couldn’t resist jumping on the ‘brand’ wagon declaring he could imagine Jesus being born in the camp.

It seems appropriate to think about that birth as we move into the Advent season.  The wonderfully familiar story of a dirt-poor couple having to travel hundreds of miles in the last few weeks of her pregnancy to be in Bethlehem, fulfilling a God-given prophecy of cosmic significance.

Maybe we can imagine Jesus being born into some kind of refugee camp.  It suits our idea of his image; born in a cattle shed, laid in a manger.  (With all the government cuts I believe the NHS is thinking of remodelling maternity care.  You have been warned!)  See how Jesus identifies with the poorest and the dispossessed.  His first visitors were the shepherds, living out on the hills, earning a scrap of a wage, considered the lowest of the low by polite society.  By contrast though, he was also visited by wise men or were they kings?  Wealthier than a Russian football club owner and bearing fabulous costly presents for the impoverished infant.  I can see Canon Fraser welcoming the shepherds but he might have some explaining to do to the protesters he identified with when a fleet of camels loaded with bling turned up.

Jesus came for everyone, poor and rich; ‘Sell everything you have and follow me’.   The wealthy aren’t excluded because of their wealth but Jesus recognised how much money could get in the way.  When he turned over the tables of the money lenders in the temple it was precisely because they were robbing people in the temple – God’s house.  Jesus was always about God’s agenda, and the principle objective was repentance and baptism.  It was little enough to do with poverty or greed.

The problem with trying to appropriate Jesus is that he resolutely defies being appropriated.  You can’t formularize how he works or what he says.  Many people claim him for themselves or believe they are speaking for him or his interests as the Occupy London protesters did.  But how often we get it wrong.  Camp site or cattle stall, the baby grew up being the saviour of the world.  Therefore he calls the shots; we always come to him on his terms.  He is the True Star.

Have a blessed Christmas.

Love in Jesus,

Lisa

Day of the Lord

TRW recently made a statement out loud that went along the line of, ‘I’m absolutely never watching another Nicholas Cage film in my life. Or at least one I’m required to pay hard cash for’. Nic’s greatest crime is not necessarily bad acting, in fact it’s probably the promise shown so early in his career that has made the subsequent years feel like a bit of a waste. It turns out he has an uncanny knack of picking extraordinarily bad films to act in. There’s a handy guide just in case you find yourself tempted to watch a Nicholas Cage film. Does he have short hair in the film? It’s probably alright whereas long hair denotes the film as a stinker. Wearing a vest? Don’t go there. The more ammunition the worse the movie and don’t depend on A List co-stars. He did appear with the incomparable Angelina Jolie in Gone in 60 seconds and it was still a dud.
But the final reason that Nic and I don’t speak any more was the film ‘Knowing’. It came out two years ago, big screen stuff with off-the-chart CGI and a satisfyingly obscure plot that stepped up tension and terror as the film became a full-on end-of-the-world extravaganza. Sounds gripping doesn’t it? And then just as you expect the four horsemen of the apocalypse to appear, who turns up? Aliens. There’s a time and a place for aliens but sometimes they feel like the Scooby Doo ending: the one you use when you’re not sure how to end a book or a film. A bit like they did in Dallas when Bobby Ewing had to be brought back (from the grave) and the whole thing had been a dream for about six years. Or the time Benny from Crossroads went to a shed to get a screw driver and didn’t come back for four years.
TRW had to revisit Knowing in her head just like she did after first seeing The Sixth Sense. So, the whole thing was an alien movie, not a biblical one as one had been sort of led to believe. And those beings that kept mysteriously appearing – not angels but aliens. How very typical that aliens knew it was the end of the world. We meanwhile were too busy looking at crop circles to have noticed.
Someone somewhere always knows ‘exactly’ when the world will end. It will be according to either
a. Nostradamus;
b. Ancient civilisations or
c. Someone’s mate called Dave who found a website with all the above and has Facebooked his discovery to 1,000 close friends.
Recently (according to teenage lore and font of all internet knowledge TRW’s son) it’s the turn of the ancient Mayans with their ‘spooky’ predictive powers causing a bit of a stir. TRW along with many others finds a persistent problem with predictions of this nature. How is it that they can’t be used to prevent the forecast tragedy? What’s the point of prophesying a catastrophe if it’s unpreventable? Call TRW a curmudgeon for splitting such finely honed hairs! If there is an answer it has to be in the very nature of how these things are expressed. Nostradamus had quatrains dear reader (remember that one for Trivial pursuit) and through these to have ‘predicted’ many of the major world events, Have you ever tried reading one of his quatrains? Along with the Mayans and every other sooth sayer the language is so obscure, the connections so tenuous that it robs them of any credible predictive powers. You could apply any one of them to almost any event and make some sort of connection. TRW has done this herself. On the strength of knowing Johnny Depp owned a house in Rye, she swears she saw him once waiting outside Sports Direct. See how easily these things are done! One of the Mayan features is the date of the End of the World. Maybe they just ran out of numbers after 2013 or whenever it’s going to happen, did anyone think of that? For a number dyslexic like TRW that could so easily happen.
Biblically end times are vague and deliberately so. Jesus made enigmatic references to the signs of the end of the age but without doubt these events are connected to and precede his return to earth to gather his church, his people, to himself forever. It signifies the end of the old order of things and the beginning of a new and glorious one. Every generation must have believed things to be so bad as to herald the end times. The results of global conflict, famine, pestilence, war in all its atrocity, concentration camps, genocide, apartheid. And what about the natural disasters that have caused such misery? Are they signs to be read, or just the natural state of a broken world? Paradoxically there are times when such disasters bring out the best in people. For a while our differences are forgotten as we strive for a common goal; to relieve suffering, bring healing, feed the hungry and comfort those who are desolate. God is still working His eternal purposes out. Even Jesus didn’t know when it would end, in fact it is only God who does(and apparently Professor Brian Cox. Clever clogs).
There’s nothing to be gained by thinking too much about how and when it all ends. TRW puts total faith in the time of a new heaven and a new earth. When God himself will wipe every tear from our eyes. When there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain for the old order of things will have passed away. A challenging quote TRW came across recently states, ‘No matter what your religious beliefs there is only one truth. Where will you be spiritually when Christ comes to enrapture his church’? Don’t worry, be ready.

Novel Thoughts

Did you spot the deliberate mistake last month? The Little Mermaid was written by Hans Christian Anderson not the Grimms.  Ah, the brothers Grimm – always punishing their women in print.  Is it any wonder The Little Mermaid ended up mistakenly in their canon of misery?  Everyone knows that Danny Kaye actually is Hans Christian Anderson and therefore much too nice to write anything more challenging that The Ugly Duckling.

Anyway, it did get me thinking on a literary note.  I’m sure I’ve talked about the book club I belong to and the diverse material we’ve covered.  The books are terrific.  The last one we read, The Busy Christian’s Guide to Busyness by Tim Chester is one I can totally recommend.  Our problem is that some of us are ‘women of a certain age.’   Consequently we gather every six weeks or so to talk about what we’ve read only to find the collective memory ramparts have been breached.    I’ve now taken to writing notes as I read; it’s the equivalent of leaving a trail of breadcrumbs that hopefully lead me back to the beginning of the book!

The home group I’m part of within St. Matthews is composed of a wider age group.  Recently we talked about our respective schools – as the eldest my experiences are frankly antiquated.   Memories of various teachers hurling the blackboard eraser across the classroom in order to concuss an unsuspecting back row talker.  They call teachers by their first names now you know!   It was great to hear that good literature is still inspiring students just as it inspired me all those years ago.

It was my pre-C.S.E. year that I first read anything by John Wyndham.  We read The Chrysalids which set me on a lifelong nerdy affection for sci-fi.*  When I discovered Chocky by the same author I knew I’d found my perfect book and try to re-read it from time to time.

They still teach on Lord of the Flies.  Hated it.  A first proper book that opened up the whole uncomfortable aspect of the darkness of human behaviour.  The reader is compelled onwards by the narrative but you know it’s all going to end VERY BADLY.  It’s the equivalent of reading while peeping from behind your hands.

When my daughter Kate sat her A levels she fell in love with the works of Margaret Atwood and later Aldous Huxley, especially Brave New World.  I couldn’t get on with that.   ‘A future world dominated by scientific totalitarianism’.  If that doesn’t get you into a library (provided it hasn’t been closed down) I don’t know what will.   I know I should have persevered with it, improving the mind etc., but happily chucked it for a biography on Elizabeth Taylor.  Rocks!   Frocks!  Now that’s what I call reading.

Much to my delight, our book group is reading The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis.  Utterly brilliant, I read it once ages ago. Funny, clever, enlightening.  It takes the form of an old devil Screwtape writing to his young nephew Wormwood about how to…..Tell you what, read it for yourself.   It’s so much better than Lord of the Flies!

* Hot off the press.  The prequel to Blade Runner is being made!   I know the very word prequel can be detrimental to your health, (Tremors 4: The Legend Begins, Butch and Sundance The Early Years. Need I go on?).  But this is Blade Runner, the stuff of genius.  What could possibly go wrong….?

What are words worth?

TRW has been busy on your behalf you’ll be pleased to know and has branched out from merely watching TV for the nation to reviewing an actual film at the cinema!    I know you’re already fed up hearing about Golden-Globe-winning-Oscar-nominated  The King’s Speech and I sympathise.  TRW felt very much like that about The Sound of Music till she saw it and next thing it’s running up lederhosen on the machine much like Maria and those curtains!

It doesn’t hurt that the film is led by a triumvirate (you’ll have to look this up as did I) of actors at the top of their game.  Colin Firth has finally said ‘bye bye’ to the wet-shirted Mr. Darcy.  It was about time. Girls that was sixteen years ago, move on!   His portrayal as the reserved, anxious  younger brother Bertie to the glamorous playboy Prince is both intense and poignant.  Helena Bonham Carter is totally believable as the sweet faced Elizabeth Windsor but let’s face it, with much better teeth.  I suppose in an age where rickets, scarlet fever and WW1 dogged people’s health, good dental practise was way down the list of priorities.  And yes TRW is aware it’s an obsession but has owned up to it.

Geoffrey Rush as speech therapist Lionel Logue is a charismatic performance.   He may have the face folds of a Shar Pei puppy but Rush commands attention on screen.  Originally from Australia, Logue was a maverick speech therapist.  The origins of his practise began with the shell shocked stutterers coming back from the Front.  He worked with survivors whose interior world had collapsed at the sights and sounds they had been subjected to.  You can imagine he has little time for class barriers, pompousness or royal etiquette.  The complex relationship between these two men is the beating heart of the film.

There are different  theories as to why people stammer.  Bertie’s seemed to be exacerbated by a particularly dysfunctional family.  There are small painful glimpses of the past as Logue persists in breaking down the emotional barriers.  A sterile loveless childhood.  An overindulged older brother, a younger brother Johnny shut away because of his epilepsy.  A childhood death,  unkind nannies, a cold mother, a terrifying father.   And if the idea of giving speeches as the Duke of York weren’t bad enough, events take a catastrophic turn with the abdication of David as King in order to marry ‘the woman he loved’.  Into the spotlight steps the timorous, newly made King George 6^th.

We hardly ever think about the mechanics of speech; for most of us it’s as automatic as blinking.  Yet communication is fundamental to all of us.  In the Grimm version of The Little Mermaid she gives up her voice in order to acquire legs and therefore go and get her Prince.  But without her voice, how can she tell him she loves him?  Pity she didn’t have time to learn to read and write – then she could have facebooked him.  But I get that at the heart of the narrative was the actual sacrifice; what she gave up for love.

The film is rife with what’s  now probably thought of as old fashioned qualities in our self-serving culture – duty, responsibility, sacrifice.  No doubt David thought he was being acutely sacrificial in surrendering his Kingship for the sake of Wallis Simpson.  Except for the fact that from then on he gave every impression of a man who had a narrow escape from the frightful bother of being the King.  It was to the ill prepared younger brother that the weight of responsibility fell.  It was he who sacrificed anything like a normal, private family life for the sake of his country.  And it was he who finally overcomes his terror of public speaking to make the speech of his life; as war upon Germany is declared.

TRW would like to make it known she is not particularly a royalist (Andrew, Edward, Fergie, Camilla, how many reasons do you need!) but left the cinema with much admiration for a man who, with such a daunting task set before him, set about achieving it with determination and courage.

Of course, when it comes to sacrifice, Jesus has the last word every time.  A heavenly kingdom is built upon what he achieved for us on the cross.  A different kind of King, destined before the beginning of time to be Lord of All who gave up everything for love.

We may admire a man who overcomes adversity in order to prevail but we are not called simply to admire Jesus for all he did.  Our sacrifice is to surrender our lives to him in order for that kingdom to grow through us.  How else do we show our love for Christ?  What in effect are we prepared to give up for that love?

A New Dawn, a New Day.

Before it becomes totally replaced by newer/crazier stuff, TRW would just like to add her contribution about the extraordinary story of Los 33. Maybe it is just the Spanish turn of phrase but it seemed that everything written or uttered by the miners or their President or anyone connected just sounded so profound. It was such a galvanizing event from beginning to end. Almost certainly film-worthy. And by golly can’t you just see the Hollywood execs drooling at the prospect. Who will play whom? The way TRW sees it, being set in Chile and all they are going to be a bit stuck. You can’t really see Colin Farrell or Matt Damon in those parts. And of course there is only one Javier Bardem which is a pity as he can’t play all the roles.

It’s not impossible that it may yet be set in small town America and Harrison Ford will be the town’s Mayor (in lieu of a President). They will rescue all but one of the miners, just before the last one gets out there will be another rock fall. Tension. Someone will have to go in and fix the capsule (either saint or sinner but someone will have to die) and then at the end as the last miner gets pulled out an almighty explosion. The mine sealed forever. TRW knows she watches far too many movies, thank you for pointing that out.

But look. Way better than fiction, who would have believed it? Finding the 33 alive after 17 days alone was miraculous. The much vaunted note sent up by the miners with the economy of words of a haiku. The same note that became talismanic for the President (though I believe there has been a bit of an undignified squabble over owner’s rights now). And the sheer unbelievable daring of the rescue that involved a global effort of technical knowhow, equipment and ingenious Heath Robinson style inventing on the spot. We watched the miners come up in that tiny capsule and TRW doesn’t mind admitting to almost holding her breath just not able to believe that it wouldn’t suddenly break down and only half the men would be rescued.

And those scenes of them stepping out of the capsule. It would take a heart of stone or Simon Cowell not to be affected by them. The earth rarely returns its sons caught up in such a catastrophe and for every man there was a sense of personal resurrection. The whole event could read as a metaphor and TRW thinks that many preachers (The Rector being one of them) will be referring to it for some time to come. The refuge, the darkness, unable to rescue themselves, Jesus himself entombed for three days in the earth. It’s rich with symbolism. For some of those men it was the first time they prayed as real fear gripped them, especially in the first 17 days. But for many they were already men of faith. One of them referred to being ‘with the devil but I put my hand up to God, I knew he wouldn’t let me go’. Jesus was referred to as the ’34^th man in the refuge’. They reminded TRW of the disciples somehow. Men of limited educational opportunities. Men who worked the land with their hands. Afraid but encouraging each other and believing that somehow God would work a miracle. And in a very 21st Century way, He did.

What was really humbling and moving was the fact that before they clasped wives or children to themselves, they sank to their knees in prayer, in praise, in thankfulness. Men unafraid to claim the greatness of their God in a very public yet dignified way.

TRW got rather caught up in the very unselfconscious way these men gave testimony to their faith and thought about some secularists. The ones who occasionally have a book to flog and thereby use it as another opportunity to tell us what muddle-headed ninnies we are to actually BELIEVE this stuff (or words to that effect). TRW pictured them on cold comfort farm huddled over the burning embers of The Church of England newspaper, rubbing their hands together and tutting over such vulgar displays of what they must think of as mediaeval clap trap. They are without a shadow of a doubt utterly convinced of the non- existence of God and TRW believes it takes a brave soul to boast that: check out Psalm 14:1. They say there are no atheists in foxholes; it’s when the chips are down we discover what it is we do believe. But if it were one of them stuck in that awful dark pit with no possible way of rescuing themselves would they really just sit and wait to die? Or like the psalmist would they ‘wait patiently for the lord, he turned to me and heard my cry he lifted me out of the slimy pit out of the mud and mire he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand. He put a new song in my mouth a hymn of praise to our God. Many will see and fear and put their trust in the Lord’. Los 33 discovered the truth of that. And so did the millions watching.

It’s the tooth, the whole tooth and nothing but….

During a conversation recently, (and this is revealing as to the kind of conversations TRW has on occasion) my nieces asked me who would be playing me in the film version.  There can only be one  answer: it has to be Angelina Jolie.  What?  We’re like sisters!  Gets mistaken all the time; she does for me that is.  I had to be realistic.  For instance it used to be that Cher was my go-to goddess  but what with all that ‘enhancement’ she appears to be the recipient of, well I’ve had to rethink  my strategy.   Angelina may have some naff tattoos (we can CGI them out) but I’m pretty sure it is still just all her.  TRW is as in love with the wondrous Angie as much as the rest of the world appears to be.  Wouldn’t actually want to be her.  All those young children, endless episodes of ‘Barney’ or any number of torturous kids’ programmes.  And Brad might be a bit of a liability; you only have to see photos of him sporting a beard to realise how hard her life must be sometimes.  There really is only one thing I confess to being envious of.  It’s her smile, or more to the point her teeth.  TRW must confess to a bit of an obsession with teeth.  Carly Simon, Ruby Wax, that girl who won The Apprentice and now presents Live at Five or something; they are my orthodontic idols.  Angelina Jolies’ smile is a beam of a thousand watts.  She seems to have more teeth than most of us mere human beings but then again she is from the culture that is more interested in cosmetic procedure than any other country on earth.  On this one, I think I’m with them.

Have you seen The Simpsons episode where a dentist has produced The Big Book of British Smiles in order to terrify children into cleaning their teeth?  Broken and yellowing and buckled, smile after smile – each one a defiant statement that says, ‘we won’t be spending our hard-earned money on something as dandified as cosmetic dentistry.  Now pass me the remote for the HD plasma screen TV.’

It’s all a question of priorities and straight white teeth have always been low on the agenda.  I think it’s a bit of a  British characteristic as outmoded as wearing beacon style uniforms for the opposition to shoot at and that the sporting life should be enshrined in amateurism.  Having said that, most folk are the recipients of treatment by overworked NHS dentists who, because of sheer weight of numbers, have to work at crash management level as opposed to preventative treatment.  Necessary dental work is at a premium let alone cosmetic dentistry.

As for TRW, I’m prioritising and as a result embarking on the first step to a tooth implant.  I recently suffered the mother of all toothaches and had to have an extraction.  When my dentist examined it, the root had cracked which would never have healed.  My first thought was that an implant is a costly procedure but my second is that (a) teeth are needed for chewing and (b) they prop your face up.  So all things considered am going for my free consultation next month.

Having justified that, where does it stop?  For instance, did you know you can have your smile broadened? When I was younger my mum submitted me to four tooth extractions (by a dentist.  Don’t try this a home!) on the grounds that I had too many teeth and not enough gum.  That sounds barbaric but then it was all that was on offer.  Now gums can accommodate teeth all thanks to technology.  Invisalign helps winch unruly teeth invisibly into place and after that why not have them bleached?  At least one of my friends has forked out for teeth whitening by her dentist, not cheap by any standards and she probably gave up eating for six months to pay for it.  Still at least food won’t be mucking up her pearly whites.  I am so tempted.  TRW can walk past a bingo hall or the bookies or a wine bar without noticing them but just open the page of a magazine to the dental cosmetics and I’m drooling; mostly because of that lost tooth admittedly.  Seriously I could become addicted to getting a killer smile in a scary and prohibitively expensive way.

And then you watch the news.  The level of abject misery of the people of flooded Pakistan, their utter desperation of the most basic needs.  The fly tips of any third world country where adults and children rake over rubbish to scratch a living.  Diarrhoea still kills babies when pennies to buy  simple medication would save them.  The list and the needs are endless.  Then  I just know I could never justify spending that kind of money on something that could get smashed to pieces if I get knocked down by the proverbial bus.  With regret I’m going to have to let Angelina smile for both of us; I’ll be happy knowing I can just chew properly again.

And in answer to the question you didn’t ask; Mike would have to be played by Harrison Ford.  Oh go on then, Gerard Butler.  He’s in the ’300′ film, should be on television this week. You can see the likeness!

Sports Day

I heard today that “Seve” Ballesteros has decided to retire from professional golf as he has ‘lost the desire to compete’. Ha! I know how that feels in fact I’d go further; I’d say there isn’t a competitive bone in my body and never more so than when it comes to sport. I just don’t get it as a competitor or as a spectator, in fact I’d probably rather go to the dentist than do either. But needs must when one’s own flesh and blood are taking part and in a spirit of goodwill and with an umbrella big enough to fend of the inevitable monsoon that started about the same time, I went to Sam’s Sports Day.

Just the sound of it takes you back doesn’t it in a sort of jumpers for goalposts way. Ghosts of sports days past floated through my mind, each one hated and endured. Pleading with excuses from tummy aches to terminal verrucas fell on deaf ears, everyone had to participate. Owing to some genetic anomaly Sam happens to be very good at sports, so the least I can do is turn up as an enthusiastic spectator.

Because of the unique nature of Sam’s school field (i.e. there isn’t one it’s just a big slab of tarmac) they’ve had to be a bit ingenious in the layout. The area is roughly quartered so four or five events are taking place at once: long jump, sprint, discus and something that looked like shuffling between two chairs until you trip and fall hurting your knee on the rather unforgiving aforementioned tarmac. That looked like fun! With two classes competing together, by my reckoning I watched Sam once every fifteen competitors. Did I say it was a long morning?

Plenty of time to reflect though upon the meaning of the plucky Brit character as it played out before us. A few youngsters overfilling their gym kits, able only to amble in everything but still giving it welly and one lad in a wheelchair determinedly taking part. Meanwhile down on the race track the girls have the advantage as they’ve grown taller than the boys and in the sprint take off like gazelles, the lads almost without exception trailed behind. It was like watching terriers chasing greyhounds. Interestingly there was none of the jeering or baiting that normally arises when men have been bettered by women nor did the girls flaunt their victory; too busy making sure their earrings were still in place I expect.

I still hate sports but that day I was really encouraged to see how they cheered each other on and celebrated each other’s small victories and personal bests and if that is learned on the sports field then it can’t be all bad. In fact I have begun to take an interest as such. It’s the season of The Tour and for the next couple of weeks, every day lots of very fit men will be cycling in Lycra. I’m almost a convert!

Love in Jesus,

Lisa